A Fractured Year
by E. M. Pink
Summary: An impossible escape, unnoticed death and wildly successful Ministry raid are the unlikely ingredients for change in the wizarding world in Antares' third year. He half doesn't want to know where the changes will take him. SEQUEL TO A Mistaken Fate.
1. Chapter 1

* * *

_A/N: Sirius opens the year for us by opening his eyes. _

_Warning: Cliffhanger. Potentially triggering scenes of mostly non-explicit violence and sex that is of dubious and/or non-consensual nature. If you want to read this but wish to be warned for the specific scenes, please see my journal for the commented version._

* * *

**Chapter 1: Black Redeemed**

It really was odd, how clear-headed one could be after sex. Sirius, despite everything, could not remember having experienced such acute clarity before now. Somehow, it did not make sense, even when the only passion in the vicinity was very much not his own. Sex had always fogged his mind, weakened his will, distracted him. Even here, where it was a commodity, he'd been able to lose himself in it sometimes, and it had never been quite this cold, this disconnected.

He was painfully alert when Dolohov finished, slumping on top of him. Sirius, thinking absently of the very inappropriate people he'd fucked in the past— some of them warranting real caution— could not help but compare how careless he'd got used to being to how he was behaving now.

When Dolohov began to move again, Sirius forced himself to relax. Despite his efforts, it hurt. Considerably. Years of forced practice kept down the urge to cry out; not only highly unwise in this situation, a scream or groan might have alerted the Dementors. Especially coming from him.

Sirius grimaced, letting the pain make him shiver instead. There were good things about being close to sane here, as he'd found out over the years. Whenever he'd chosen not to suffer through sanity, life was almost bearable. Azkaban was not just the Dementors, never just the Dementors. There were always wizards and witches within, on both sides of the bars, and though many of the inmates were permanently insane, most had periods of clarity. Most of them made use of those periods, slaking desires, maintaining contacts, building alliances.

Sometimes, it was easy to do so— if your contacts were sane, alive and still interested in trading, it was often easy to slip back into making the rounds. This last month, things had begun easily for Sirius, so much so that it had not surprised him in the least to find out that Bellatrix was in the news again. The last time she'd been steadily featured in the papers, Sirius had been suffering through his first and shortest sane period. Those three weeks had been full of people willing to fight past every obstacle to thrust newspapers in his face and call his family the cesspit of wizarding Britain. It had also been the first time Sirius had heeded advice from someone he hated.

"_If you really want to die, go ahead,"_ he could almost hear now. _"This is Azkaban, Black. Death is easy…and no one gives a shit."_

At first, Sirius had survived because it was hard, and he didn't feel he deserved easy. When near, the Dementors managed to leach all the hope out of every accomplishment, and that was harder to bear when he was sane. Being fed more often because of…arrangements he'd made meant he felt marginally warmer in the mornings, but also meant that he could scream and imagine and _see_ for hours on end when the Dementors floated by.

Listening to Dolohov moving nearby, Sirius could not quite remember when the reason for surviving had been reduced to just that. He did remember that first time he'd woken sane and beneath the blanket obtained months before the usual descent. The fragile sweetness of that moment had held him frozen in bed for hours, acutely feeling his suspension between light and dark, warmth and cold, fear and expectation.

Sirius took a deep breath. The grey-and-black, his personal landscape of insanity, had always seemed close; it was close now. But not like that, never like that, soft and insistent, crowding around him. His entire world a wash of grey fractured by black, save for the blanket and its equally insistent warmth, enduring even in the darkness of his mind.

Soft, scratchy darkness descended, almost making Sirius smile. _Speak of the devil_, he thought, but forced the smile away as the usual blindfold was tied tightly across his eyes. Dolohov did not like his smiles. Sirius accepted the hand up, tolerated the groping, every bit of him tensing as he felt and heard the man move away. Distance meant danger, he knew, but he stayed still, pretending not to care.

"Here," Dolohov said, and then he was close by again, his hand curling into Sirius' dirty hair even as the wadded newspaper was tucked into his hands. The kiss started without any warning; Sirius, remembering just how much Dolohov had talked up this particular paper, responded in kind. Acidic thoughts about the kisses Sirius had shared with men he actually cared about seemed to pool in the pit of his stomach, burning through to some of the anger beneath.

Dolohov, as always, enjoyed the effect. "Such sharp teeth in such a soft little thing," he whispered, thumbing the jutting collarbones that made his false compliment even more of a mockery. "You'll know who to thank for this, of course," he said, stroking the paper. "Let me know when you're done."

Sirius nodded, not liking the veiled excitement in Dolohov's tone, but knowing far better than to show it. Unless unease was what Dolohov was after at that moment, of course. Despite knowing the rumours of what he was here for, Sirius still could not quite picture the man expressing more than the normal run of cruelty that washed through the cells here every day.

It was hard to keep back a smile at that. It had not taken very long for Sirius to learn that being billed as the most dangerous man in Azkaban and actually _being_ that man were two very different things. While Dolohov was also definitely not that man, who apparently directed owl traffic for the entire island by means unknown and unspoken of, he was high enough in the Azkaban's complex pecking order to have had one of the guards let him into Sirius' cell a few months ago.

It had been an unpleasant day, one of those in which Sirius could almost believe himself to be what the wizarding world had made him in their minds. And yet, despite the very real bite lurking behind them, none of the bloodthirsty threats Sirius had directed at Dolohov had had more effect than to put him off talking to Sirius at that moment.

"_Waste of my time,"_ he'd said then, calmly, sounding almost bored. _"If you keep this up, you'll be Summoning for the Dementors again in no time."_

That had enraged Sirius just then, to have his rage taken so lightly. To feel almost part of the barren scenery of his cell, as Dolohov raked uninterested eyes over him and everything else. _"I could Summon them _sane_, you bastard. How about now?" _

Dolohov had shrugged then, as he was likely shrugging now. _"Be a waste, seeing a lovely young thing like you get Kissed."_ Sirius could hear him speaking now, sharp amusement colouring his low tone. "He gets like this sometimes, Travers. Move him, he'll walk." Travers, not one of Sirius' usual escorts, said something, low enough that Sirius couldn't make it out. "Not _now_, I said. When I'm done, you'll be the first to know."

Someone took hold of him, their firm, unyielding grip shifting only to propel him carefully through the door he could not see. Sirius clutched at the newspaper he'd earned and decided to pretend unawareness for some moments more. He dearly wished he'd been able to hear what this Travers had said; he wished even harder that he'd not begun to think of what Dolohov might have done. Many memories he'd suppressed entirely had begun to leak back in fits and starts— another sign of his newly returned sanity— and the raw fear he now instinctively felt at that little exchange might trigger some of the worse ones. Bring them back, with insanity running by them, cheek by jowl, its smell as familiar as the smell of his own piss.

They turned a corner— despite the blindfold, Sirius could always feel that kind of change— and soon enough, Sirius was hearing the rattle-rattle of his bars drawing themselves across. He stood straight, thumbing casually at the page edges he could feel, gripping his renewed fear tight to himself. That last grope from his escort had not been a mistake, that rough, firm hand sliding down as it pushed him in, briefly gripping the bars as its owner said yet another locking password that Sirius knew from experience would not work for him. There was something afoot.

And, as the blindfold fell, released from its spell from a distance Sirius hated not knowing, he quickly found out what. Weak in the knees, Sirius sat down hard, the grubby but legible newspaper spread across his aching thighs.

The headline was just two words: BLACK REDEEMED.

* * *

Sirus' first reaction, as ever, had been fear. He'd curled up for a few moments, shaking with fear and anger and fear again, barely able to bring himself to read the newspaper he'd worked so hard for. By the time he finally picked it up again, his mind was running high and hard, the only thought that stayed constant being the heavy, panic-inducing one of what Dolohov expected his reaction to be.

Now, at the end of the damp pages of the _Prophet_, Sirius could almost taste that expectation, could feel it in his aching arse, his bruised sides. _Used_, his brooding mind supplied. _Humiliated_. Sirius turned the _Prophet_ over, looking at the picture on the front page for what now seemed like the thousandth time in the last few hours. The intense determination, the possession that flitted across Bella's face as she looked down at her son. Obsession, the near-destructive sort that Sirius instinctively understood.

And suddenly there it was, the most important one, hovering in his mind, side-by-side with Bella's angry, helpless expression— the one that featured prominently in the pictures of her during her son's trial. _Unable to walk away_.

Sirius smiled tightly, hugging the hard-won knowledge to himself. It was coming together now— the way Dolohov had sought him out this time, the way he'd gently and not-so-gently been encouraged to need more, ask more, it all fit. Seeing Bella humiliated and scorned week after week in the _Prophet_ and in the cells before now only seemed to highlight the passion this story told in pictures, in long, excited accounts, in letters from avid readers.

"_No one ignores a Black_," he remembered hearing; from Bella, from his mother, from everyone around him. It had been in their faces, in their smiles, in their howls as he was dragged away. Sirius breathed slowly, carefully, trying to let the next thought settle around him: _they will notice if I tell the truth_. Agree, disagree; call him a liar, a murderer, the thousand things he'd been in small and large ways, the unpleasant things he always bound to himself while he saw the world in black and grey.

They _would_ notice. No one could ignore a body that wasn't dead and in pieces; no one would ignore it if a Black was standing over it, telling that body's wretched, treacherous story.

Sirius let a deep breath out, and took another one in. He knew, knew well that these were foolish thoughts. Useless to him, if he couldn't _find_ that body, or, more importantly, find his way out of this accursed place. But he could very well hope. Quietly, so as to draw no notice.

He folded the newspaper in half, putting away Bella's picture for another day. It helped, of course, that he'd likely had the entirely opposite reaction to this edition of the _Prophet_ than Dolohov had been expecting. It was relatively fresh, for god's sake, and too full of stories about Bella and her son's progress over the 'last few months' to be anything but one of those rare issues they put out to talk up some public figure. Bella suddenly seeming to become that revered figure in the blink of an eye would have enraged Sirius— years ago, when he had not swum so merrily in madness' sea, his mind so actively despairing that he regularly stood in as one of the unfortunate souls whose misery was used to control and summon the Dementors.

Now, though? Sirius smiled, thinking of how shocked he would have been years ago, to know that Bella's success— no, _redemption_, had given him hope. How…insulted.

Sirius' smile deepened. Hope followed it, spreading traitorous warmth into places where such warmth felt like hurt. Quickly, Sirius changed, thinking that the quick, familiar pain would stop the progress of his painful hope. When it did not, he nipped at his foreleg as hard as he dared. _Save your howls_, he told himself sharply. _Tears are for those who are free_.

The pain of the self-inflicted wound kept the hungry smile out of his frame, but only just. Sirius turned round and round, restless, and finally flopped down next to the newspaper, which he barely remembered dropping. Dolohov would need to be dealt with first, of course. Hopefully, he would give in to the lure of the humiliation he'd hoped to cause, and come to Sirius' cell to bask in it. Or perhaps he'd send for Sirius as always.

Sirius shook his head, panting with anticipation. Either way, someone would be opening Sirius' barred cell within days. Sirius licked his teeth, tasting the sharp tang of his own blood. The guards here didn't carry wands, not inside the prison walls. And there was no prisoner here that would not flinch from a Grim, however gaunt and tired it was.

There were the Dementors, of course; their chill was everywhere. It was easier to bear it as a dog, a trick he'd learnt after surfacing from insanity just after they'd switched to using someone else as a Summoner. A few Dementors had been slow to answer the call of that poor soul's mind, and by desperate experimentation Sirius soon found that they lingered less when he changed. He'd used the respites it gave him sparingly, fearing to be caught and punished or worse, exploited for his secret.

Now, his last truly dangerous secret would serve him.

The hope in Sirius' heart continued to sting as it rose, following him quietly as he returned to human form. Panic boiled beneath his hope, reminding him of the few important things that could go wrong. The Dementors might still want him, dog form or no. Once out of the prison and out of their immediate reach, he would still be on the island, surrounded by sea, nothing to direct him home. There might even be a guard wandering the island— from the little he knew, the island was patrolled at least once a day— but that might be good, too, if the guard still had their wand. But if there was more than one, it wouldn't go well. Frightened or not, they'd at least try to cut him down, or immobilise him and fetch a Dementor to sort him out on their behalf. And where would he be then?

Still, Sirius hoped, eyes open, mind in the sky. It was hard not to, with freedom feeling so close. His mind painted pictures of it, and they stayed with him, even when they turned bad, filling with blood and despair. When he woke screaming but sane, he knew the Dementors were near, and wished he'd been able to afford to stay changed until Dolohov or his minions came to fetch him.

Sighing, Sirius lay still, stiff with fear, his mind numb with the cold of the Dementors' passing. He did not feel the time go by like that. One moment, he was shivering on the dank stone floor, itching madly for freedom and shivering with the certain knowledge that he did not deserve it. And then there was someone outside his cell, someone he hadn't heard approach it.

"Black." Sirius, shaken abruptly out of his cold, fearful thoughts, could nearly taste the anticipation in Dolohov's tone. Drawing in the sharp breath that was expected of him, Sirius tried not to think of what the man tasted like. Remembered sourness seemed to fill his mouth.

_Good_, the mullish, mad-eyed fighter in him said. Better sourness now than the sweetish taste that told of impending nausea. Being sick would spoil the effect of what he was about to do, without a doubt. Drawing recklessly on his bloodthirsty hope, Sirius managed to be more than still as the bars of his cell rattled and let Dolohov in. To his chagrin, they closed behind him immediately, though he had not taken more than a step inside. "Don't look so down," Dolohov said, smiling. "I've another for you."

"You do, do you?" Sirius said, putting the dog into it. Hunger gripped him suddenly, sharp, out of the blue. _Fuck, it's feeding time_. Feeding time meant his mind would be less sharp, that he would be more vulnerable to suggestion, more likely to be goaded into betraying his one last secret here.

Sirius straightened anyway. He was on a roll, wrapped in mystery, fully "one of those mad Blacks" for perhaps the first time in too long; there was no way he'd back down _now_. "Tell me if it has my cousin in it." Dolohov would surely dissemble now, perhaps tell him he needed payment for the answer. Sirius did not mind paying, not if it meant that Dolohov would open the bars again, and let him outside. "Tell me!"

"Why?" Dolohov asked, tapping gently at the bars, but saying no password. It was hard not to speak then, but Sirius managed it, forcing a scornful expression onto his face. Dolohov was watching him closely now, a smile on his face, unnerving as anything. Just as Sirius began to think he would leave without asking anything, the other man began to move towards him. As he came closer, Sirius barely glimpsed the look on his face before the shadows of this part of his cell blotted it out, but that glimpse was enough. The man's face was alive with the need for destruction, and his eyes gleamed briefly in the darkness, full of malicious intent.

Obeying instinct, Sirius attacked, drawing strength out of the fetid air around them. Dolohov turned the struggle on its head in minutes, laughing softly as Sirius fought him ineffectively. The man's frantic pants thundered in the cell as he finally bent Sirius' already bruising body onto his bed. Relief raced through Sirius then, doubling as he felt Dolohov press his hardening cock against him. Cold and pain mingled horribly for a moment as his threadbare trousers were tugged violently off, but when Dolohov's hand closed like a vise around his hip, Sirius was prepared for what he now knew was certainly to come.

He screamed anyway, biting his tongue through the worst of it. It was hard to keep fighting, then, though he knew Dolohov would expect it. Sirius compromised as best as he could, trying hard to focus on getting Dolohov's other hand away from his throat instead of getting away from him entirely. Pain made his fingers shaky and useless, and the effort earned him painful thrusts that made him cry out.

It was worth it, however, for Dolohov, laughing harshly, began to slow down. Sirius, gritting his teeth, tried not to hope for more. But the hand that had been choking him let go, moving down to his other hip. The sigh that came to him at that was thrust apart into short, desperate-sounding pants, but the relief behind it was whole. The real violence was over now; soon enough, Dolohov would finish, slump, insult him to the core and leave. Sirius, knowing he would need strength to follow him out, finally allowed himself to go limp.

The breathless laughter that caused gave him panicked pause. Dolohov shifted suddenly and stopped, one hand leaving Sirius' hip and feeling around to the front. Sirius' fearful confusion fell away with the first squeeze; humiliation took its place with the second. And the third—

"Fuck!" Sirius couldn't stop it, couldn't keep it back. He bit his tongue, fighting the urge to speak, to beg against the unfamiliar pleasure knifing through him, but it wasn't enough. Desperate, useless curses continued to slip from his bloody lips, punctuated by the bursts of pain from the bruises inside him that Dolohov had began to work again.

"Is that all you have to say?" Dolohov whispered to him, his hand still moving, stroking— "You're going to enjoy this if it kills me," he continued, into Sirius' aching shoulder. The involuntary shudder that caused made him laugh. Sirius began to struggle again, uselessly, but the humiliating assault didn't stop. Dolohov's fingers were everywhere. His taunts were everywhere too, accompanied by groans and snickers that hurt more than the slippery pain that was now bringing stinging tears to his eyes.

Then Dolohov swore and thrust hard, his fingers forgetting Sirius in his own release, and it was finally over. Smelly, familiar warmth filled him, another mockery. Sirius jerked himself out of Dolohov's slack grip, though the damage was already done. Dolohov let him go, the death-grip on his hip loosening like it always did after. After.

Usually, after meant Sirius could shiver in peace. He lay still despite the pain and lack of space, determined not to give that ground._ How could I have been so stupid?_

As always, there was no answer for that, none but the pain. Sirius tried to breathe it out silently, failing when he tasted blood in his mouth. A moment later, Dolohov was rolling him over and tasting it too; the final insult. He let Sirius fall limply back to his hard, narrow bed, smiling contentedly down at him. Sirius barely noticed that he left, barely registered the soft thump of the newspaper that Dolohov let fall to the floor beside him. The aches, all of them, all of them occupied him. He wanted to _bite_ something, wanted to tear at someone until they felt like this, broken apart. Used. Humiliated. No longer faking a shake, a shiver, a tear.

Grey, ghostly waves were pushing at him, surging up to smear the dirty words on the walls into nothing. Shaking, Sirius crawled off his bed and reached out across the floor, hoping to find sanity. The bloodied paper, smeared with— _I can't do this, I didn't, I didn't let him_—

Sirius shook his head, forced himself to look. _It's for your own good_, he was able to say, until he dimly realised Remus was on the cover. He bit his tongue again then, slashing the paper open. There had to be sanity within these pages, something, anything he could hold onto while this wound closed and let him sleep, let him walk, let him _leave_—

The paper was crumpling, tearing in Sirius' hands. His throat was hoarse, but he could not hear a sound. _Peter_, he told himself. _Find Peter_. _Have to_.

As the next page turned, Sirius could have sworn he heard a swish— a wave—

And suddenly, improbably, he'd _found_ him. That…tail, looping and unlooping around some fool boy's wrist— the caption said Weasleys, that they were on holiday—

Footsteps.

A vaguely familiar-looking man entered the cell quickly, quietly, hunger on his face. When he jeered at Sirius, laughing at his state, Sirius recognised his voice, the still-familiar accent of his words. Dolohov had called him Travers, had told him to wait. For this, no doubt.

Travers touched him, and Sirius saw his face become Peter's, his hands become closing bars, and changed. The screams that filled his ears after that seemed oddly disconnected with the dirt and skin and blood in his mouth, and even more so from the predatory howl that sprung from deep within his chest. His eyes watched the bleeding, dying man struggle for the door, pat a bar, open—

Sirius leapt over him, ignoring the scrape, ignoring the blood and death that called him back to his cell.

_Peter first_, he heard that predatory part of himself say. _He will die_.

* * *

The guard was slowing him down. Sirius, scowling, decided to take another break, to let them just float aimlessly for a moment. Looking around at the endless-seeming, eerily familiar grey waves, he found himself wondering whether he would have survived the crossing on his own, dog fur or no dog fur. It was the one thought that had kept him from Disapparating and leaving the guard to his fate earlier on, a thought that had blossomed in his mind from the moment he'd run the man down and taken his wand.

He couldn't help scratching at the thought now, with the wind biting his skin, and freedom all around him. Sirius rubbed uselessly at his eyes, forcing himself to pocket the stolen wand. Without him, the man would be unable to move the boat— it was one of those self-propelling models, one that was only partially self-guiding. Such boats needed assistive, wanded magic to make up the shortfall, and would only go so far without steering and other navigational spells.

And, of course, there was the fact that the guard had stayed down once run down. Unconscious and badly wounded, the unlucky bastard was in no fit state to perform any sort of spell. And considering that Sirius would bloody well be taking his wand along with him if— when he Apparated, it was almost certain that the guard would die if left behind.

Still, it rankled. Moments later, propelling the boat south once again, Sirius wondered how on earth the night he'd been transferred over here to Azkaban had gone by so fast. Perhaps the darkness had helped; it was light now, barely so. And perhaps the boat they'd used to ferry him into hell had been in better condition. He'd not taken time to examine the boat that led him to unending captivity, of course; hadn't seemed remotely possible at the time. Two hours ago— Sirius smiled, thinking of that first, shaky _Tempus_ and the ones that had followed— it had not seemed even slightly important.

Now, however… Sirius sighed, looking down at the guard. _At least I have a wand_.

An hour later, land was in sight. Barren, deserted land, to be sure, but land nonetheless. Sirius hadn't been in the frame of mind to turn his frozen nose up at any land two and a half hours ago, after becoming half-frozen and completely soaked within minutes of his setting out away from the prison, and certainly wasn't about to do so now.

As the boat drew closer to land, Sirius' spirits soared even as his eyes scanned the rocky beach and its surroundings for signs of…anything, really. Paranoia made him slow the boat down and try to Disillusion himself, before belatedly realising that anyone he could see from out at sea would definitely have seen him by now.

So it was that Sirius set foot on British soil for the first time in twelve years, hungry, thirsty, his robes beginning to stiffen with salt. His prisoner soon bobbed along behind him, suspended awkwardly in the air, stunned, his clothes charmed to keep him warm and bound. Settling him down, Sirius proceeded to bring the old boat ashore, using a lightening charm and wadded strips from his tattered robe sleeves to keep his already trembling hands safe from the freezing wood.

He worked slowly, carefully, relishing the feel of a responsive wand in his hand, savouring the mental stretch of remembering which spell to use. Even so, the task was done too soon; hands itching, Sirius picked out the nearest flat-topped rock and sat down, feeling aimless. The cold wind soon gave him an idea, one he excitedly seized upon.

_Fire_, Sirius thought, eyeing the boat. Not like he needed it now. And really, the guard needed thawing, as did he himself. His fingers closed numbly around the precious wand, which had fallen into his lap. Raising his arm purposefully, Sirius flicked it hard, habit keeping the incantation silent. _Incendio!_

Nothing happened. Somehow, instead of crushing him, the new impossibility got him to his feet, got him moving. Sirius walked around the beaten old vessel, touching it carefully in places, feeling for the spells that likely preserved it from the common destructive charms and curses.

The sun rose high, its rays never quite reaching the little tableau on the shore, the strange triangle of men and boat. Sirius, mindful of how much, or rather, how little time had passed since they'd landed, refrained from stunning the guard again. Instead, he watched the man's fretful, stiff movements out of the corner of his eye, and only stunned him when he'd rolled over for the second time in half an hour.

The low, feverish mumbling that Sirius heard from the guard during that time began to worry him as he broke down what seemed to be the final spells on the boat— the last thing he needed on hand right now was a body to bury. Still, the boat was a pile of damp, icy wood before he'd decided that a diagnostic spell or two would be a good idea.

"_Scio integra_," Sirius said. Out loud, this time, because he'd never been very good at these— "Blue…blue for fever, I remember that much." Lots of blue, Sirius found, carefully extending the spell to cover the man's whole body. "Fuck." It was clear, now, that there'd be no time for a fire, time for nothing but some hasty transfiguration of the wood he'd mined from the boat.

Blankets, probably, and robes. Sirius looked critically over his stiff, torn clothes. _Definitely robes_.

Still, it was a moment before he spoke the first spell, heavy as it was on his tongue. There was something about facing that pile of wood, about knowing that it had been a boat charmed to take on everything.

Everything, it seemed, except for him. A slow, strange smile spread itself on Sirius' face, seemingly of its own accord. But hope answered within him, surging up, feeling stronger than anything he'd ever repressed in Azkaban.

Lifting his wand, Sirius grudgingly let the hope soar. _Better than a fire_, he told himself, since there was no one around to see it. _Better than anything_.

* * *

Days later, the hope was still around, filling Sirius' chest like a giant balloon. It was getting to be rather irritating, especially when alone, when his mind would dance feverishly on Peter's future grave, occupying itself with thoughts of how to put him in it instead of thoughts of how he would keep from getting caught in the doing of it.

Not that he was that far from getting caught now, even hidden as he was in a muggle Manchester motel. The idea about memory charming the prison guard before abandoning him at a Muggle hospital in Edinburgh had entirely escaped him until about an hour after he'd watched the shivering man taken into the Hospital by a concerned passer-by. After swearing for a quarter of an hour while trying to see if he could find the man again, Sirius had given it up and Apparated to three places in quick succession, hoping to cover his magical trail.

So far, it seemed to have worked. Getting set up in Manchester hadn't been too hard to do once he'd uncovered a forgotten little stash in Leeds, a hollow in an oak tree that contained some rotten canned beans, a tightly folded threadbare robe and— most importantly— money. Sirius, fingering the ratty little sack, could acutely remember the day he'd stashed this away, thinking to provide another quick, useful stop he could easily get to on the run from Voldemort.

Slowly, he shook his head, turning his attention to the busy street below his tiny window. _I was so smart then_, he thought bitterly. _Brilliantly useless_.

The tinny, familiar pecking at the window was a welcome distraction. Scanning the street, Sirius stood well out of sight as he opened the window, taking care to do it slowly and quietly enough that it looked mostly normal. The owl zoomed in regardless, flapping and squawking and staring down at him with its beady, disdainful eyes.

Frowning, Sirius cleansed the Knuts he slipped into its payment bag of his magical signature as well as he could, not making a move to touch the fresh, crisp pages of the _Prophet_ until the owl had left. No stranger to paranoia, he shook off the feeling that the owl had known who he was as best as he could. No profit in wasting time in wallowing in that when there was such goodness on offer in the paper.

'THE GREAT RAID: MALFOY MANOR RANSACKED' caught his eye, as did the usual little side story on Bella's son, Antares. Sirius didn't hesitate a moment, turning quickly to the second page to see what— ah.

He stared. _Good, great Merlin— that's almost more Dark objects than I've ever seen in my life_. Which explained why the picture of the heavily laden dining table at Malfoy Manor took up more than half of the page despite a much smaller headline at the top. Sirius, examining it, counted four wands of varying length, two large coils of grubby rope, and fifteen mounds of largely innocent-looking jewelry before he gave up. A pair of manacles still struggled and snapped within a spell barrier on the right side of the table; some of the grislier items scattered around looked like they were giving off some noxious gas.

Behind it all stood the twitching, barely restrained form of Lucius Malfoy. It was a strategic photograph if Sirius had ever seen one— condemning from top to bottom, from the squirming mink coat that seemed to be eating the cup next to it to the hatred and rage in Lucius' eyes. The article that went with everything was very nearly masterful in construction, with its author adopting a hushed, confidential tone that bled truth and dropped quotes and descriptions realistic enough that she _had_ to have had a source that had been there during the raid.

A page later, Sirius' suspicion was confirmed. A picture of a grimly smiling Arthur Weasley had been placed smack in the middle of a section titled "THE INSIDE STORY: BREAKING MALFOY MANOR".

Smiling incredulously, Sirius settled down onto the stiff bed nearby. Since when had actual Ministry employees been allowed to gab off about even halfway public raids?

"…_a week ago, we'd have had only an hour to find Dark Objects before British wizarding law would require us to surrender the Manor back into Mr. Malfoy's possession," Mr. Weasley said. Understandably, the Ministry changed its stance on the interpretation of the Law of the Castle, as it is allowed to do when the owner of the suspect dwelling has recently been tied to Dark dealings— which, as many remember all too clearly, exactly describes Mr. Malfoy's situation._

"_An hour was more than enough to find almost all of the things on our evidence table," Mr. Weasley confided, when asked. "If we'd had only that, however, we would have missed some very, very significant finds." It did not take much pressing to find out some details about these finds; they include an anonymous, powerful yew wand and a filthy golden cup. Both of them greatly exuded Dark Magic, and were the first of the batch of seized items to land themselves high-security strongboxes in the Department of Mysteries._

_The excitement over the raid's unprecedented success is already having a profound effect. Department Heads at the Ministry are calling for the same depth of scrutiny to be levelled at any and all involuntary members of You-Know-Who's illegal, ruthlessly sadistic organization. According to anonymous sources, the split that has engendered amongst top Ministry officials deepens by the hour, and though there has been a lot of talk about raiding the homes of families like the Malfoys, it seems highly likely that such plans will never crystalize into concrete, successful action._

"_A great waste," according to Weasley. "The Malfoys cannot have been the only family to lie their way out of trouble. Searching the houses of old, supposedly involuntary members of the Death Eaters would doubtless yield."_

A small picture of Arthur winked up at Sirius, his face bright with enthusiasm despite his dishevelled and burnt hair and person. Sirius scanned the fat caption beneath the picture out of habit, and stilled when he finally began to sense the implication of…well, everything. The cheery, flattering photograph, the sprinkling of authoritative quotes, the 'profound effect' of the raid on the Ministry, an effect the _Prophet_ was obviously helping to magnify.

Sirius, thinking hard, barely felt the fresh newspaper drop from his hands. Soon enough, he had the picture in his hands, the one that had drawn him out of Azkaban. This time, instead of glaring at Peter's fat, glossy coat, he searched for the caption.

The words were nearly too faded and blurred to read, and a few were missing. But the meaning was clear; it was a not-too-recent shot of the family on a rare holiday. And the mostly intact article above it was clearer still: A TRUE WIZARDING FAMILY: _Scarred by war but healing cheerfully, the Weasleys are the antithesis to the corrupt, relentlessly politicking Malfoys. Molly Weasley, the matriarch of the family, lost two brothers and several friends in the struggle against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named,. Arthur Weasley gave up ambitions of becoming an Auror, channelling his time into supporting family and friends hard-hit by the chaos and fear. Remus Lupin, controversial surrogate father to the Boy-Who-Lived spoke of how the Weasleys helped him several times during and after the war…_

Sirius, head spinning, folded away the picture. _Promotion_, he said to himself, weighing the word in his mouth. With the recent backlash against the Malfoys, anyone Lucius had been leaning on to put obstacles in the way of Arthur's career might have decided to retaliate by removing their objection to his advancement. Suggesting the first article favourably comparing them to the Malfoys couldn't have been hard to do, with the _Prophet_ so receptive to even the smallest and cleanest handful of mud that could be flung in their direction. This raid and the following interview would merely have been icing on the cake.

Sirius rose, the urge to pace overpowering him. After passing it several times, he realised that window the owl had come through was closed— something he couldn't remember doing. Familiar fear squeezed at his gut, fear of the waves, of the mad sea pulling him down even here, where he was free.

Sirius sat down hard, forcing himself to think. So, just now, Arthur was unassailable. That was good, that was obvious; if he found Peter hiding in Arthur's home, it would be a plus in his favour, especially if Sirius' recapture came along with it. Though nothing about his escape from Azkaban had been in the Prophet for the last week, he knew the Ministry had to have found out by now. They'd keep it back, of course, and Arthur would become even more of a golden boy by handing Sirius in.

Then again, if Peter wasn't there…Sirius began to laugh. It was horribly ironic, really; that his only lead, his only fucking clue as to Peter's whereabouts being an old photograph was too ridiculous for words. The sea began to pound against his mind, whispering of comfort, of forgetfulness.

Reluctantly, Sirius refused. "I have to check," he told the sea, earnestly. "Have to." The sea receded slowly, leaving him high and dry. Sirius opened his eyes, wondering when he closed them, and realised he'd taken the picture out again. Fear froze him as his mind sluggishly replayed the little conversation he'd had with— with—

"Get up," Sirius told himself. He put away the picture as he did so, crumpling it heedlessly; there was no need to protect it now. Now, he needed to protect himself. He drew in a deep breath, casting the charms he needed as they came to mind. _Dissimulo_. _Celo sonavi_. He paused automatically, almost able to hear what Moody had always said. "Let the spells marry before you charge off," he muttered to himself, the words rising from deep memory. "Let them settle. _Celo essentia_."

The last spell, as always, was said out loud to test the Self-Silencing Charm's efficacy. Nothing disturbed the dim silence of Sirius' empty motel room, nothing but the slight muffling of sound that came with trying to completely conceal his magical signature. There was no way to test the strength of that, especially since anyone highly sensitive to the presence of magic would be able to sense something of his presence.

Sirius took another deep breath, trying not to feel it could be one of his last. But the weight of a war he'd only barely seen the end of settled on him anyway, like an old friend. "Nox," he said, feeling the fear within him weave with determination. The war had never really ended for him— Peter had seen to that.

Now, it was his turn to be seen to. And Sirius would relish the seeing.

The new, crisp newspaper was examined for the last time, then burnt to ashes within a shaky but sufficient Spell Confinement Bubble. The scent of ashes followed Sirius through the familiar tunnel that was Apparation, dispersing rapidly once he found himself in Arthur's musty toolshed. Breathing a little faster, Sirius loosened his grip on his wand before casting the first spell he would need. _Point me Pettigrew_.

It was hard not to laugh when the wand shifted and spun, and settled, pointing directly to his right. Alive, then.

_Mine_. The dog in Sirius wanted to howl in hungry triumph. He allowed himself a nasty smile, and proceeded to Apparate again, thinking hard of Peter's familiar grey coat.

Peter never saw it coming. Napping on his innocent owner's garish orange bed, unaware of Sirius' silent presence…it was almost too easy. Sirius stared for a moment, noting how healthy his old friend looked now. Fat. Glossy. Well cared for.

Sirius' hand tightened around his stolen wand. A moment later, it was visible, as was the rest of him. Only fair; only right that Peter could see what Azkaban had done to him.

Now, then, to wake him. "_Reverso animagus_," Sirius whispered, infusing the spell with hate. Cool, blue light flared from his wand, blinding him momentarily. And then the rat, half-hidden in the orange covers, began to expand in size, transforming into an alien-seeming form.

Sirius, shaky with surprise, took a step back. The man that had outrun him in that alley was gone; a fat, vaguely familiar-looking middle-aged man in dirty clothes was all that remained. That man was awake, now, rubbing at his eyes instinctively. It did not take long for him to realise what had happened to him, of course— Peter had always been able to scent danger, to feel the change in his situation.

That sense would not save him today. "Merlin," was the first thing Peter said, seeing Sirius. "Oh god—"

"_Consero magica_," Sirius said immediately, savouring the way the fear on his old friend's face deepened into terror. "_Silencio_." Now, Peter would be unable to perform a spell without him knowing it. Smiling, Sirius removed the Silencing charm, replacing it with burning links of steel that bound tighter with each struggle. Peter screamed as the first chain curled around him, doubtless recognising the spell. Sirius grinned when he saw his struggle to remain still; a flick of his wand had the chains tightening on their own.

For a long moment, Sirius felt…_centred_. The chains were beginning to draw blood, burning swiftly through the tattered clothing on his old friend's back no matter how still he remained. The sweat stood out on his forehead; tears streamed from his eyes. His screams were the sweetest sound Sirius had ever heard, filling the room, irrevocably twined with the smell of burning flesh and the stink of Peter's fear.

The moment, of course, did not stand. The door behind him exploded without any warning, spraying the room with shards of wood. Sirius spun round to face it, and felt his heart sink.

Molly Weasley stepped through the door, wand out in front, her clenched white hand elevating it in perfect duelling style. The determined look on her face drained away as soon as she saw them. The point of her formerly spell-steady wand drooped, giving Sirius time to raise a shield, any shield. The Scissoring Hex whipped around his shaky shield harmlessly, but Peter's scream was punctuated by short, terrified yelps. They stirred vicious amusement in Sirius heart even as he blocked the powerful Stunner that followed on the heels of the first hex.

The amusement disappeared suddenly, replaced by a faint squeezing and the brief, viscerally familiar sense of entering a miniscule tunnel. Sirius' body recognised the feeling of Apparation first, turning him towards Peter automatically. He felt his shield drop a moment after he flung the desperate Placement Charm at Peter's already disappearing body, but could not care less that another Scissoring Hex was now carving its way into his back. Peter remained in the room, unconscious; his left arm was missing, torn away from him by the force of the Charm that now rooted his quavering body to the floor nearby.

A thick, strange feeling surged in Sirius' throat, muting the pain in his back. The air in the room was heavy with failed magic, Peter's magic; it spurred Sirius on, turning him around again, lending his now blatantly offensive spells an unmistakeable edge. Molly was faltering visibly now, unable to take her frightened gaze off the spatters of blood that now decorated the orange bed. Her shock destabilised her aim and made her careless, and soon enough Sirius had carved her into a corner, subduing her with spelled ropes.

"_Sistere_," Sirius said, pointing his stolen wand in Peter's direction. Molly's wand felt strange in his left hand, ordinary and somehow wrong. He could feel her fearful eyes skewering his back as he bent diffidently over his enemy's still body, examining the damage he'd done to it. Some of the chains were gone; he replaced them. Those that remained were bright with blood, but the flow was slowing, stanched by his indifferent healing spell. "Death's not enough for you, just yet," he said quietly. "Not yet." Peter did not move. Even so, Sirius cast a quick charm, anticipation gripping his heart until the spell confirmed him as unconscious.

Suspicious but satisfied, Sirius finally straightened. Molly's quiet pants sped up; her face now glistened with tears. Stilling for a moment, Sirius could soon hear the source of her increasing fear— faint, nervous footsteps, doubtless belonging to one or more of her children, could be heard through the gutted door. A frightened, unintelligible whisper was soon cut short, followed by fainter, more careful footsteps that sounded as if they were moving away from the door.

"I'm not here for you," Sirius found himself saying, his voice alarmingly loud in the silence of the room. Clearing his throat in an effort to get rid of the tightness in it, he tried again. "I'm here for him," he said, gesturing stiffly at Peter's prone form, "and _only_ him." Molly was silent now, eyes flitting from him to Peter and back again. "I'll leave your wand behind," he continued, quietly. "Peter will come with me. Spread the word, will you. I…no, we," he savoured the word for a moment, "won't be back."

A long, strange moment later, Molly nodded. Her eyes had fallen to the ground, and a fierce expression was on her face. Sirius found himself speaking again. "Sorry about the room." No more words came, after that. It was time to leave, and Sirius' body sensed that better than he did, moving him mechanically towards Peter. His old friend's skin was clammy and slick, bringing back the memory of strange, foolish nights. Nights when trust had bound them just as tightly as lust.

Shaking his head, Sirius tried to collect his thoughts. Flinging Molly's wand towards her, he fought to conjure up the outline of that room in Manchester, hoping no one would be there by now.

Water began to gather instead, replacing the solid memory of the motel with grey. Sirius heard a splash, and tried not to think that it was the wand that he'd thrown. A look down at his feet drove the motel room out of his mind— water was beginning to fill the room, lapping around his ankles. The walls were bleeding grey water in spots, mingling with the blood and orange of the room.

Swearing, Sirius laid hand on a chain, ignoring the burn as he fought to pull the spell he needed out of the black and grey. It came to him suddenly, along with the memory of a day long past, when rain had beat against the dormitory windows, and four boys had learnt a new charm. "_Portus_," Sirius said hoarsely, forcing the magic into the chain he held. He jabbed his wand into a robe pocket and scrabbled for Peter's remaining limp hand, uncaring of where they ended up.

The spell finally took, sliding into place, settling into a few links on the other side of Peter's bleeding body. Sighing with anticipation, Sirius felt towards them, his reluctant, aching fingers clumsy with pain.

Nothing happened. Sirius bit his lip hard, drawing blood. A look around showed no sign of water, no sign of _anything_. Molly was still shaking in the corner. Peter was still limp and within his mercy. So why—

"ATTENTION, WRONGDOER; THIS DWELLING HAS BEEN PLACED UNDER TRAVEL-INHIBITING CHARMS." Sirius' heart stopped at the familiar drone of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement Warning System. The familiar, dispassionate words were loud enough to hurt, freezing him in cold, shaking sanity. "ATTEMPTS TO ESCAPE ARE DANGEROUS TO YOUR HEALTH." That explained the failure of his hastily made Portkey. Dispirited, Sirius let go of the chain, now barely listening to the droning voice. "CO-OPERATION IS IN YOUR INTEREST. DISCARD YOUR WAND AND STEP OUTSIDE, AND YOUR INJURIES WILL BE TREATED."

Sirius sighed— if he remembered correctly, that was the last phrase of the recording. Sure enough, silence settled on him, filling the room.

"Go," Molly said, making him jerk with surprise. A quick look at her put a faint smile on his weary face; she'd wriggled to her wand, and was struggling to pick it up. "Didn't you hear what they said?"

"They'll blast me to the ground," Sirius said. He looked down at Peter, unable to stop his grip from tightening on the soft, bloody hand. "And he'll get away. Again."

"I'll watch him," Molly offered, but Sirius was already shaking his head.

"You go," he said, firmly. "Take— take the children." The ropes fell away from around her, sliced neatly by a spell from her own wand, but she did not move. "This is mine. I _waited_, Molly. I won't…" his voice cracked, putting an end to the words he could now barely feel. "Go."

Shaking, Molly got gingerly to her feet. She weighed her wand in her hand for a moment, the urge to say something clear on her face, then turned away, making for the door. Sirius turned his frozen-feeling mind back onto the subject of what to do; it continued to elude him. It occurred to him that he could kill Peter now, take his revenge _now_, before anyone could wrest it from his grasp.

Sirius raised the wand, the old fantasy coming back. He pointed it at Peter, seeing him dead, seeing his pale face turn blue and black with rot. But the orange and red of the room intruded on that old vision, and the shallow, laboured breathing— a clear reminder of the life that still struggled nearby— destroyed it. The Killing Curse was on the tip of Sirius' tongue, but he could not feel either of his arms now, and his wand was shaking. He thought dimly that he was at the last of his strength, and that the Killing Curse he badly wanted to unleash might kill him too. And there was, of course, the fact that the last time he'd cast it— the only time he'd ever used it in earnest— Peter had got away.

Slowly, he turned until his shaking wand was pointed at the doorway. "_Delimitas_," he said, as forcefully as he could, the condition governing the ward he would need uppermost in his aching head. The doorway glowed, and fingers of light spread their way around the room, making Sirius smile again, despite the weariness that was dragging him down.

_One more spell_, he told himself, turning again, moving his hand so it gripped Peter's upper arm. The Sticking Charm flowed easily, as it had begun to do in the middle of third year, when they'd all gone mad for using them in pranks. When they had been together, when they had been strong.

_Black and Potter, Lupin and Pettigrew_, Sirius thought, as darkness ate away the world around him. _All four of them fools_. ONLY

* * *

_A/N: Welcome back. See my profile for more details on how to keep up with fic updates._

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	2. Chapter 2

* * *

_A/N: Severus shows us where everyone has been._ _Warning: Foul language, disturbing concepts, and references to sex. I.e. one of the lighter chapters for this year._

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**Chapter 2: Holding Back The Strain**

He'd known it to be a bad idea to fuck her again. At that time, in that context— wrong, wrong, wrong. And yet…

Severus sighed quietly, acutely conscious of the state Bella was in. Last year's situation with Antares probably hadn't helped, haunting her as it still did, but how it had left her was nothing compared to how she was now. Wound tight, she shifted restlessly beside him, stiffly changing position from moment to moment. And, most telling, her wand was in her hand, clutched in a grip so tight that Severus avoided looking.

He hadn't looked last night, when she'd clung to him. Severus moved closer to her, carefully. With her in this state, the last thing he wanted was to actually see what had caused it. Seeing would only make her more distressed, just now; Bella was like that, with her secrets. She parcelled them out to him bit by bit, teasing in her restraint, becoming angry when things were revealed out of sequence, out of her control.

Severus, moving very slowly, dropped a soft kiss on Bella's shoulder. Telling her about…recent events now seemed out of the question. She needed to know, no doubt. But she didn't need to be burdened with the decisions racing madly in his mind. What she needed now was rest. Peace.

_Somehow, I'll give you that_. Another kiss later, Severus began untangling himself from Bella, certain that it would wake her up. Before peace would come worry, outrage, and possibly fear. But after…he would see to that.

Bella came awake very suddenly, jolting Severus from his morbid thoughts with the press of her wand to his neck. Unerring aim, as ever— the tip of her wand hit him in the the jugular, making him jump. It was taken away a moment after, of course, and replaced by her warm, sleepy mouth.

"Sorry," she murmured into his skin. "Sorry." The grip she now had on his arm hurt.

But that was not what he said. "We need to talk, Bella. I know you're tired, but…"

"Is it that important?" That tickled, or felt as if it should have. But the tone she said it in was so very weary that it sapped those familiar words of the spice they usually carried. Severus put his hand in her hair as he pulled away, for reassurance. For her, he told himself firmly. Just for her. "Fine." She drew away from him, abruptly falling back to the pillow. "Talk."

Severus swallowed. When she put it like that…but no. It _was_ important.

He cleared his throat anyway. "Your cousin…Black. He's—"

Bella's heavy sigh cut him off. "Sirius' death is about the _least_ important thing—"

"He's not dead," Severus said, interrupting, stroking her forehead as he did so. "He escaped."

That got her attention. But the cost…more colour drained from her already pale face, and her whole body went still. Severus bit his tongue to prevent himself from offering sympathy; sympathy was not what Bella would need, not now.

Her answer proved him right. "_How_?" Bella took a deep breath, but did not move more than that. "But— _Azkaban_—"

"Could not hold him," Severus said, ruthlessly restraining the grudging admiration he still felt for the very idea. "They're still investigating."

"But—"

"He is in Ministry custody only because he appeared at the Weasleys' little hovel in Devon," Severus went on, ignoring the fact that he'd drawn Bella closer, and was rubbing foolish circles into her back. "And that…well, I'll just say it." But he didn't, not immediately. The very thought of saying the words seemed ridiculous. "Pettigrew is alive."

"What?" Bella clutched at him, bringing her expression of alarm temptingly close. "But—"

"He's missing an arm, actually," Severus added reluctantly. "And the famous finger. But it comes out that the finger was his doing, and long since done. The arm, however…" Severus shook his head. "Molly Weasley is saying that your cousin…splinched it from him. On purpose."

Though the shock on her face showed she was still listening, the look in her eyes told him that she wasn't completely present. She was pondering the matter as he had done, she had to be. "How did he find _Pettigrew_ in the Weasleys' house?"

"Not yet clear, that. Apparently, he saw a newspaper—"

"Wait, why was Pettigrew at the Weasleys' in the first place? And how could he have hid there?" Bella turned her face into his shoulder, muffling her words with more than simple confusion. "They can't have known, obviously, but—"

"Apparently, he— Pettigrew— is an Animagus," Severus said softly, shaking his head again. How, he could guess. The hows of this were surprisingly easy to understand. The whys, however… "A rat Animagus, to be precise. He hid as their pet."

"But why?" Bella demanded, her voice low. "Why would he hide if Sirius couldn't kill him? He _was_ in Az— well, I suppose there is the fact that he escaped, but—"

"It doesn't make sense," Severus finished for her, feeling oddly content. He could smell her warmth, could almost taste it. He was discussing the sudden re-emergence of both Black and Pettigrew, for god's sakes, and yet Bella still managed to distract him by withdrawing slightly and biting at a nail and looking up at him with such…understanding. "Dumbledore wangled a meeting with Black for yesterday. I still haven't heard back from him in full, but…" He stroked her hair. "It's nothing you need to worry about."

Bella rolled her eyes at him. For one dark moment, all that had happened to Antares last year seemed to stand between them, palpable as the feel of skin on skin. Severus, feeling reckless, ended the moment by pressing a kiss to her lips. Relief bit fiercely into him as she responded, slow and warm. The kiss ended too quickly, leaving Severus acutely aware that they were naked and closely entwined, but careless of the fact in the face of what might happen next.

"You'll be going to Hogwarts today," Bella said, into the sensitive skin of his neck. "Won't you."

Severus nodded, and sighed, and then she was on top of him, kissing him with the desperate urgency of the night before, and there was no time to think.

* * *

The morning passed by slowly, as if to make up for the frenzied nature of the night before. As had become usual, breakfast was nearly ready by the time Severus went downstairs. Today, he did not try to help Antares make it, taking a seat at the kitchen table and going through today's post instead. As usual, it consisted only of the _Prophet_ and a pair of letters from Antares' friends, and was laid out on the table in front of the seat Bella usually occupied. Severus, discarding the letters, began to examine the front page of the _Prophet_. 

_MALFOY ACCOUNTING FOR DARK OBJECTS DECLARED UNSATISFACTORY_ was the only headline, a fact that had Severus sighing in relief. How he might have kept the news of Black's escape from Antares if the _Prophet_ had reproduced it today was a mystery. He had the distinct impression that Bella wanted to tell her son of it herself, so—

"Anything interesting?"

Severus shook his head, hiding how that small question had startled him. It did not lessen his relief that the _Prophet_ had been forced to hold back the news, especially once Antares shrugged went back to what he had been doing. Again, however, Severus found himself watching the boy direct plates to the table with a smoothness that came of long practice, much the same way he'd been unable to stop closely watching Antares do tasks around the house ever since Bella had left.

As always, something about it raised the hair on the back of Severus' still-damp neck; he'd never been able to feel magic in the way others could, but judging its preciseness had always come easy to him. None of the plates rattled. All of them settled exactly where they'd been settling ever since Antares had taken over setting the tables without jostling the mugs that were already set out.

A soft whistle broke the silence in the kitchen, silence that Severus very suddenly put together with the precise, disciplined spellwork, and came up with what had been unnerving him for the last three days. Once the thought had occurred to him, he could not help staring at Antares.

_Ludicrous_, he thought, _that a child can have so much power_. Antares hovered near the teapot, checking the temperature of what was in it. That charm was voiced, a fact that confused Severus momentarily until he remembered how completely one needed to understand each spell before attempting it without words. The next spell, one that moved the salt within Antares' reach, was conspicuously silent.

For a moment, not even the long-known fact that the boy had always been good at charms that moved things could temper Severus' horror that he had been allowed to do this. Or, to be frank, that he was capable of doing this. _Nonverbal spells. At_ twelve. _Is Bella mad?_

Severus, distantly feeling himself set down the newspaper, tried to pull together something more than horrified wonder. Antares, he now realised, was using his wand— a rare occurrence, nowadays. That was something; that meant that Bella had at least thought of the danger of someone so young and uncontrolled being set free from the constraints of both wand movements and carefully spoken spells.

"How long?"

Antares glanced back at him. "What?"

Severus rolled his eyes. "How long have you been neglecting to speak your spells?" At that, Antares looked guilty— a sign, perhaps, of Bella not quite approving of his new habit? "Do you know how dangerous—"

"Mum said it was fine," Antares said quickly, dashing Severus' hopes on the matter. "I'm using my wand for it; it's fine."

"Was it fine when you managed to turn her boot into a snake last month?"

"I turned it back." Antares was now looking down at his feet, but the clenching of his hands clearly signalled that he was avoiding Severus' gaze out of anger, not remorse. "It only took a minute—"

"Just because your power lets you operate without constraints doesn't mean you don't need them!" Severus glared at Antares, trying to think up words that could convince him to stop being so careless. "At the very least, you should _say_ your spells."

"And that way, no one will notice how easy they are for me." Antares' tone was only slightly mocking, but the meaning was clear. "Right."

"You don't take this seriously, do you?" Severus forced a sigh, trying to remain calm. "Did you learn nothing after last year? When something goes wrong—"

"I'll be blamed for it anyway," Antares snapped. "If I hide things, they'll suspect something. If I don't, they'll point the finger. What I learned last year," he put vicious emphasis on the words, "is that I can't win."

"Look—"

"I'm not stupid, you know," Antares said, cutting him off. "I'm hardly going to stop carrying my wand."

"And you'll do wandless magic in front of anyone who cares to see it, is that it?"

"It's not going away," Antares said, turning back to the stove. "Might even get worse. More pronounced." His tone was light now, ill-suited for the concealment of the bitter resignation so plainly on his face. "Magical core growing consistently, Pomfrey said. Normal development. You don't remember?"

Severus did remember hearing that now. That had been after St. Mungo's, during Antares' second trip to Hogwarts. Severus faintly remembered the odd expression that had flashed across Dumbledore's face, remembered being irritated at how distracted the man had been afterwards. He'd half ignored it then, too busy worrying about Bella's near-hysterical reaction to the news that the fusion of the Dark Lord's magic into Antares' magical core was permanent.

Antares was completely ignoring him now, as usual, and the near-silence in the kitchen was now only broken by faint clinks and the soft hiss of frying bacon. Severus could not help but feel he deserved this, deserved to be thoroughly unnerved, especially after failing to reach what now seemed a very obvious conclusion.

_It's not going away._

"Save the wandless magic till your fifth year," Severus found himself saying, because it was true. Antares' ability would likely plague him as long as he lived; best that he got used to the attention it garnered him as soon as possible. The look he now received from the boy made him hasten to explain. "That's when a talent for it tends to show. Be a little less out of the ordinary, then."

"Fourth year," Antares countered. When Severus opened his mouth to object, he was cut off again. "We learn Summoning charms then."

"But—"

"I can explain those charms easily," Antares argued. "And it'll be a good place to start— Professor Flitwick won't be too surprised. He won't mind. He knows I can do them with a wand already, doesn't he? He might even encourage me to try other spells."

Severus nodded slowly, hoping his surprise didn't show on his face. He hadn't quite expected the boy to have so careful a plan already half-laid.

But Antares was already giving him a thin, sarcastic smile. "Not stupid, remember?" He turned back to the stove again, and deftly put the burners out. "Do you mind more eggs than bacon? I used the last of the bacon this morning…"

* * *

Breakfast passed quickly and in grim silence, one determinedly held up by Antares. He stared at the back of the _Prophet_ as Severus continued to read it, obviously peering at the Quidditch scores, but shook his head when offered the paper. Bella's arrival did little to offset the silence. Arriving just as Severus finished eating, she made a beeline for the newspaper, half-snatching it out of his hands and proceeding to scan it in tense silence. 

"There's nothing in there," Severus eventually said, unwilling to continue watching her determined, slightly manic perusal of the _Prophet_. "Not yet, anyway."

Bella sighed, folding the _Prophet_ and putting it down. "I didn't think they would wait."

"I suppose Albus got Cuffe to suppress it for the time being," Severus said, eyeing the newspaper. "And of course the Ministry might have helped—"

"Got who?"

Though Bella had said that offhand, Severus felt compelled to answer. "Cuffe, Bernard Cuffe. The editor; Albus knows his father."

The statement produced no significant reaction. "Ah," Bella said, without much enthusiasm. "I see." Severus held back a sigh, trying to tell himself that she likely had a good reason for being uninterested in the identity of the editor of the _Prophet_; it could be that she'd already heard of him, after all. Besides, he _had_ just given her a very nice lead into broaching the subject of Black's escape with Antares— she could be nerving herself to begin, or—

"Suppress what?" Antares asked. He looked expectantly at his mother. "Has something happened?"

"You should get going," Bella said to Severus, ignoring Antares. "I doubt the Headmaster will like to be kept waiting."

Severus paused in the midst of pushing back from the table, confused. He'd expected to stay for the discussion, to help her lay out the facts of her cousin's escape. "It's not quite time to—"

"But you want to be early," Bella said, nodding as if he'd said anything of the sort. "Off you go."

Severus could hardly ignore a hint like that. Hiding his annoyance as he rose didn't take much effort, especially not after Bella pulled him down for a brief kiss as he passed by her seat.

When it ended, she did not let him go. "How long will you be?"

"Three hours," Severus murmured. "Wait, make that four; I'm stopping in at the butcher's in Hogsmeade."

"But they can be so expensive," Bella complained, letting go of him reluctantly. "That muggle butcher down the road—"

"Not safe, and not a habit to get into," Severus reminded her, regretting anew his decision to stop in there late last month when they'd run out of everything, and he'd been too tired to think of going all the way to Hogsmeade for food. "Better I'm not remembered on that street— can't go warding or obliviating everyone I deal with if I need to, can I?"

Bella sighed, but nodded in agreement. "You know what we've run out of?"

"Bacon, bread, potatoes and cheese," Antares said, a little too quickly. "And oatmeal as well, I think." Severus gave him a sharp look, but didn't blame the boy for wanting him off as fast as possible; it was likely clear enough to Antares that Bella wouldn't tell him anything until Severus left. "And you might want to get some cream, too."

Severus nodded, already on his way out of the kitchen. He stood outside the rapidly closed door for a moment, debating whether to try and listen in, but the slow squelch of the Imperturbable charm being applied to the door convinced him that eavesdropping would not be taken lightly. He made his way to the hearth in the living room with bad grace, and shouted his destination into the green flames a little louder than was needed. He regretted it a moment later, when he found himself dumped back out into the living room he'd just tried to leave.

Cursing, he dusted himself off needlessly, and tried to distract himself by counting the number of sequins he could spy on the floor while he waited the requisite five minutes for congestion in the Floo network nearby to die down. He cursed again, loudly, when he finally got out at Hogwarts and found himself thickly covered in soot.

"Bloody house elves," he muttered, spelling himself clean with a sharp, angry movement. They hadn't skimped on cleaning out the hearth in his rooms at Hogwarts to this degree for years. Muttering, Severus made his way to the door, hard-pressed to keep from slamming it on his way out. The fact that he hadn't been coming up here as often as he usually did during the summer didn't seem adequate reason for their annoying neglect.

Thankfully, the walk up to Albus' office took little time and offered no further annoyance. It gave Severus time to compose himself; time that he sorely needed, what with what would likely happen during his meeting with the Headmaster. Despite the looming prospect of meeting Black again in the flesh— if you could call seeing him rave within a Pensieve that— Severus was in a civil mood by the time he spoke the password at the entrance to Albus' office.

That mood dissolved with the look Albus pinned on him once he stepped through the wide-open door of his office.

"I spoke to Peter."

Several questions suggested themselves at the same time, ensuring that Severus stood before the old man for full half a second with his mouth half open. "But Fudge said—"

"He wouldn't let me, yes," Albus waved a hand at him. "Sit down, why don't you."

Severus did so slowly, now peering dubiously at the contents of the pensieve already set out on the table between them. "Then how—"

"I asked him to reconsider, and he did," Albus said. "Just after I'd got to Sirius' cell, word came to me that I could see Peter afterwards, in a nearby cell." As usual, he supplied no extra comment. However, not even the slightest hint of smug pleasure accompanied those words. Undoubtedly, something had gone wrong. "Peter was well, to an extent. As well as one could be in his situation." Severus only half-listened to Dumbledore's calm description of how Peter Pettigrew was coping with the loss of an arm; the tight expression on his face belied his level, direct tone.

When Albus paused, Severus sat up, on full alert. Something _was_ wrong.

"Peter had an explanation," Albus finally said, his expression grown tight and closed. For a moment, Severus did not quite understand what he meant; gradually, realisation dawned on him.

He could not help but laugh; lowly, shortly, bitterly. "An explanation," he said, trying to keep the worst of it from his tone. "For what? For masquerading as the pet of one of the Weasleys' brats for ten years?"

"Exactly the sort of thing that crossed my mind, before I saw him," Dumbledore said calmly, seeming to take no notice of Severus' shaking hands. "But Severus—"

"His mother mourned him publicly. Wizarding England mourned his cowardly life— his finger is still on display," Severus said, unable to stop himself. "What sort of explanation can stretch to cover his behaviour?"

"Am I asking you to take my word for it?" Severus could see the tension in the Headmaster's voice mirrored in the taut line of his hands, which stretched out on the desk before him palm up, beseeching. "Only come in with me, and look. We can do Peter first, if you'd rather."

Severus gave Albus a searching look, wondering what lay behind this tensely obliging behaviour. He would very much rather get Peter Pettigrew's pathetic pack of lies out of the way first. Professed terror or fear of murder at the hands of a traitorous friend did _not_ cover ten years of rathood, and certainly did not excuse the false sainthood so generously heaped upon the stupid man's inadequate shoulders. Eventually, Severus nodded his assent, saying nothing as he quietly made himself comfortable in his seat. At least Black would be truthful, in his own vicious way. And a far more entertaining listen—

"Ready?" Albus pushed the pensieve towards him. "After you."

Severus, ignoring the tight knot of apprehension forming in his belly, put a finger into the bowl and fell hard into what he recognised as a Ministry cell. Though empty of anyone but Severus himself, it sent a shiver down his back. The drab bareness of the room was vaguely familiar, in a way that set his skin to itching with unease.

Severus' reaction to the memory did not diminish even after the Headmaster's rather more graceful fall into the memory. He seemed to sense that, saying nothing, beckoning to Severus as he headed for the room's only door. The corridor they entered was soberly lit, and there was a particular sort of distance to everything around them that calmed Severus' irrational anxiety somewhat.

"So," he said, to help dispel it entirely, "Black _is_ in one of the worse cells." It was a rather obvious observation to make— anyone who'd been in this unsavoury part of the Ministry with their brain and eyes functioning could not have missed the fact that he and Dumbledore were descending into darker, dingier corridors, and that the junior Aurors posted along them were looking less and less junior. But it put a sort of smile on Albus' face, and, more importantly, got him talking.

"You would remark on that," he said evenly, whatever amusement Severus' words had given him submerging in the abstract thought behind the forced calm on his face. "They both are, of course," Albus continued. "No one wants to take chances with either of them this time, especially if Sirius' story is true."

"They _believe_ him?" Severus exclaimed, before he could think better of it. "I suppose it does explain why they didn't kill him on sight—"

"That, I'm afraid, is due to Sirius' quick thinking alone," Albus said, his tone virtually free of expression. "He joined himself to Peter using much the same sort of spell that diary used on Antares. And he warded them both, to make sure no one intending to kill him could cross into the room. I'm not entirely sure of the practical purpose of the sticking charm he used, but I suppose that was for extra emphasis."

"You said he was unconscious when they found—"

"He woke an hour later, in exactly the same spot where he passed out," Albus said, his tone gaining a hint of steel. "The Aurors on the scene had decided it to be in their best interest to talk to him, by then."

Severus bit his lip, wholly able to imagine the sheer frustration the Aurors hunting Black that day must have felt. "Dementors?"

Albus' smile was almost bitter. "Things were determined to be too uncertain in Azkaban to spare even one of them. And, until this morning, he was the only one that knew he escaped as a dog." Albus slowed his steps. "Well, him and the guard he robbed of a wand. And he's still in St. Mungo's in critical condition."

"So Black is an animagus as well?" Severus asked, only able to keep the envy from his tone by sheer force of will. "You'll be telling me that they all were, next. Well, except for Lupin—"

Albus gave him a look. "James was a stag," he said, quietly. "And they all became animagi for Remus' sake, to help him bear…things."

Severus laughed. "Fitting," he said, unable to stop himself. "It would be still more fitting, of course, if they were all alive. Or better, all dead, save for him."

"Severus—"

"I believe you said we would listen to Pettigrew's account first," he said, ignoring the Dumbledore's chagrined tone. "If you don't mind." The last, Severus knew, was rather venomous. Right then, however, he could not bring himself to care. "Well?"

Albus sighed. "Peter first."

They fell silent soon after, reaching a cell door only to see Albus' memory self emerge from it. He closed it abruptly by hand, the stony look on his face deepening as he did so, then paused, staring at nothing in particular. One of the two Aurors posted behind them shifted loudly, nervously, probably in reaction to the Headmaster's unnerving silence.

The real Albus ventured next to nothing in explanation. "Seeing Sirius was a shock," he said simply, not seeming to register the unnerved looks the guards were giving his memory self as he turned towards the door next to the one he'd just emerged from. "Hearing him speak was…worse."

"And Pettigrew?" No answer was supplied for that, excepting a simple, calm shake of the head. Severus barely restrained a sigh of impatience. Now that he was here— that they were here, he began to think Pettigrew's interview might not be as free of entertainment as he'd thought. Albus' face and demeanour oozed reluctance, and the distanced feel of the memory was not enough to detract from the murky atmosphere of the corridor around them. Clearly, something had happened here that Albus did not like to remember, and liked even less to relive with Severus hovering nearby.

"Aha," Albus said, uselessly, as his memory self opened the other door. Peter's door, evidently. "Here we go…" They both followed him inside, the closure of the door as Severus was halfway through it chilling him slightly.

Severus nearly stopped short, unready enough for what he felt on seeing Peter Pettigrew's lumpy, shivering form huddled on a bed. It might have been anticipation, except that the definition of anticipation did not stretch to cover raw satisfaction. The first rush Severus felt on seeing Pettigrew flinch back from the other Dumbledore was pure and clean, free of sweat and rapid heartbeats and the usual trappings of excitement.

Somehow, it was easier to hide that pure, strange feeling. Severus stood still, acutely aware of Albus' covert scrutiny, and just as aware that contentment, not detachment, was what held him calm enough to soak in the ensuing conversation. The start of which, to be frank, didn't exactly lessen his inconvenient, prurient anticipation.

"Professor," Pettigrew said weakly, through dry, cracked lips. The soft creak of the conjured chair beside him only added to the pathetic sentiment of his words. "You came."

Dumbledore-of-the-memory did not answer him directly, settling back into his chair, his face an artificial sea of calm. "You four," he said, tapping the wooden arm of his rickety armchair, "you always had more power to hurt each other than anyone else. Severus made quite the effort, of course, but he wasn't close to you. Not enough to know the sort of things he would need to strike, and strike hard." A light pause later, he was leaning close, suddenly twice the grave old headmaster he'd ever been to Severus. "Did Sirius tell you why he did this?" He patted the flat long sleeve that would have contained Pettigrew's left arm.

It was both hard and easy to watch Pettigrew sigh, his face twisting in pain despite the obvious comfort a direct question like that was giving him. "He felt me Apparating," was the low answer. "Didn't want me getting away again."

Memory Dumbledore stroked the sleeve for a long, silent moment. "Why?"

"We had a secret," Pettigrew said slowly. Heavily. "He didn't— doesn't trust me to keep it."

"And he thought splinching your arm off might help," Severus muttered. "Typical." He ignored the real Dumbledore's sharp glance in his direction, of course; he had to be allowed at least _one_ joke at their expense. "Pathetic," he added, whispering, and could have smiled when Dumbledore pretended not to hear.

Of course, watching a copy of the man bend over Pettigrew and stroke his armless sleeve sucked away the pleasure from that. Not much more came of the interview for a time, save for pathetic tears (Pettigrew's), firm questions and gentle suppositions (Dumbledore's) and an almost remarkable display of uncompromising cowardice (Pettigrew's).

"I wanted everyone to remember me better," he whispered at the last. "Not like— not as his. Not as his plaything."

"There, there," Memory Dumbledore said, patting him very gently on the shoulder. "I understand."

_I most certainly do not_, Severus thought, keeping his face free of emotion. _You seemed quite content to label me the Dark Lord's fucktoy, to add to the rumours like everyone else_. He smirked inside, suddenly realising what that meant. _Well, well, look who ended lower down the totem pole_—

And Pettigrew had ended lower down indeed. Bit by bit, he now surrendered the information Dumbledore asked of him, all of it stained with the reality of how he'd likely acquired it. Pettigrew knew, and seemed to try to put a braver face on it. Albus' memory self also seemed to know, and kept from asking for the damning context. But the spectre of Pettigrew's failed relationship with Black hung heavily over the conversation, right till the very end.

Pettigrew was sobbing again by then, and being comforted with annoying sincerity. The real Dumbledore turned sharply to face Severus, a blank expression on his face. "Satisfied?"

"Almost," Severus said, raising his eyebrows slightly. "I still have yet to hear Black's side of the story." He said nothing more, enjoying the slight confusion that appeared briefly on the Headmaster's face as they left the room. He'd obviously been expecting some sort of orgy of gloating, a public self-condemnation that revealed Severus' insecurities as sharply as it skewered those of an old, old enemy.

But Albus, of course, did not have the full facts of Severus' current living situation. Just now, looking back on the foolish conflicts within the Order from the the vantage point of ten years of experience and almost two years of an impossibly stable relationship, the rumours and bitterness that had grown with it all seemed very, very small. What was left was older, hardier, somehow stale…and already quite pleased with the spectacle Pettigrew had just put on for Severus' enjoyment, pleased enough that no signs of pleasure needed to be shown.

Which meant that Severus could outwardly be civil, and keep his gloating to himself. "Shall we?"

Dumbledore nodded, closed his eyes briefly, and suddenly they were watching his memory self enter Sirius' cell, looking determined. Severus followed both versions of him in, and was then treated to a fundamentally disturbing display of raging delusion.

For, in contrast to his old friend, Sirius Black was no coward, and quite blatantly insane.

"He did it," he said immediately, as soon as the door opened, "not me." His hollow eyes fixed unnervingly on Dumbledore's memory self as he sat down into another rickety chair of his conjuring, looking taken aback. "I couldn't know," he continued, pleadingly. "He was too good. We were so _stupid_, we transferred it, I could have borne it and I _didn't_—"

"Sirius—"

"You left me Secret-Keeper," Black spat, his fists clenching on his knees, "and I just…I _gave_ it to him. I see it in my dreams, again and again—"

Severus, blanching at the mental image of Black going feverishly over his former…dealings with Pettigrew, could not help but feel the slightest twinge of sympathy for the pathetic bastard. Hiding as a rat, that was low. But hiding as a rat, from _this_…well. That just struck Severus as badly executed common sense.

"And he just…walked away. Gave it away." Black's eyes gleamed. "I saw him after. _Packing_. I tried, Professor, I tried my _fucking_ best, and all he lost was a _fucking finger_." Even Memory Dumbledore flinched a little at the sudden vehemence of those last two words. Severus tried not to think of what it must have been like to face that, in a place you thought you had sought sanctuary, however misguided your choice had been. "That finger." A bleak smile spread over Black's face, at odds with the fury in his eyes. "He used to call mine golden. Blessed. And he gave it away. Gave them away, just like that. He cost me _everything_, and what did he pay? A finger. An arm." He leaned forward, a terrible hunger on his face. "Just let me finish it. That's all I ask."

Dumbledore took in a sharp breath. "Sirius—"

"Oh, it's my fault, I know," Black said, cutting him off in a bizarrely normal tone, leaning back. Crossing his legs at the ankles, picking at his tatty trouser knees with twitching fingers. "It won't bring them back." His voice broke on that last word, sending chills down Severus' back. "Won't bring _him_ back," he went on, his tone becoming low and garbled. "Their son. They had a _son_." He shook his head, hard. "Bastard." He curled his hands into fists again, not looking at anything in particular. "At least let me have him. Let him pay."

Severus sniffed scornfully. _Over Bella's dead body_, he thought. _More likely, over yours_. Dumbledore gave him a dry look, his mind obviously reaching back to all-too-recent memories of Bella's protective rage. She'd die before she let anyone harm Antares that she could prevent from doing so, and though Black was insane and probably quite free of the restraints a normal wizard might have on their more foolhardy tendencies, his single-minded ferocity might not extend to confrontations that didn't involve the possible death of Pettigrew. For all the babbling he was doing now, cursing and crying over Lily and James' supposedly dead son, it was Pettigrew that held his attention.

"You'll let me?" he was saying now, hands twitching. "Professor, answer me!"

"I will do everything in my power," Albus' memory-self replied, "to ensure you get what you deserve."

Severus couldn't help it. He choked on his laughter, biting his tongue when the real Albus gave him a singularly annoyed look. Moments later, the Ministry room was dissolving around them, taking Sirius Black's pathetically grateful sobs with it, and Albus was shifting the Pensieve to the side, still looking disgruntled. Severus forced the remnants of mirth off his face as soon as he could, but could not quite resist one last shot. "So," he said, "when's the reunion?"

"Do _not_ make that joke," Albus said, giving him a warning look. "That's two men's lives that hang in the balance—"

"What balance?" Severus returned the hard look he was pinned down with with one of his own. "Well? Pettigrew destroyed any chance he had at anything resembling a normal life when he stayed underground. And _Black_— well. Whatever he was, whatever he could have done…" Severus shrugged. "Gone."

"Sirius was likely already mad upon entering Azkaban," Albus said, slowly removing his glasses. "I suppose the thought of harming Peter kept him focused enough to escape."

"Did they tell you how that—"

"Yes and no," Albus said, interrupting. Now engrossed in cleaning his glasses, he had no eyes for the annoyance surely showing on Severus' face. "The guard— the one Sirius attacked to escape— he said he was attacked by a dog, but not much more than that. No one has yet tried to test the truth of it, but it will be done." He sighed. "Besides, you heard Peter confirm it."

"Yes, I did," Severus said, forcing the crude joke that had occurred to him then out of his thoughts. The Headmaster had replaced his glasses, but was looking down at his still hands, clasped loosely on the desk. "But beyond that…?"

"Nothing," Albus said, frustration leaking into his tone. "Nothing at all, unless we question his fellow prisoners. And that, of course, will not happen."

Severus hesitated before asking the question, now certain that it would only add to Albus'…displeasure with the circumstances. "When will they execute him? Black, I mean."

As he'd expected, it was a moment before Albus replied. "In a week or so, probably. After they've let the _Prophet_ run wild with the story, of course." His tone was low. Resigned. "How's the boy getting on?"

"Well enough." Severus said. Recognising the approaching dismissal, he rose from his chair. "Bella, however—"

Albus sighed. "Another defiant Black. I suppose she didn't tell you where she went?"

"I was smart enough not to bother asking," Severus said, resisting the urge to protest the unjustified comparison. However upset Bella was right now, she was a long way away from wherever her cousin had escaped to in his madness. "I think she's intending to go to work tomorrow, however. I believe I remember her grousing about some project or other that she hadn't finished on time." He'd heard no such thing, of course, but Dumbledore didn't know that.

And, judging by the closed, distant look on his face, he didn't care. "You know to call if anything happens, of course." When Severus began heading for the door, all Albus offered was a disinterested, "Taking a walk?"

"Hogsmeade," Severus said, opening the door. "One little errand to take care of," he added reluctantly, when no insulting inquiry into why he was going to Hogsmeade followed his deliberately short answer. "Get some sleep, or Poppy'll be after you."

No reply to that either. Concerning, really, but it still took some minutes for Severus to decide to alter his course so he could remind Poppy to be after Albus for his obvious malaise. The absence of non-addictive cures for heartsickness did not mean some good-natured badgering and good food wouldn't help take the old man's mind off recent events to some extent.

Of course, the good deed was easier grudgingly thought up than actually executed. Though well acquainted with Poppy's lingering disapproval of him by now, Severus still occasionally found himself expecting a polite welcome on entering her tidy little office. Today was one of the days when it took him half by surprise that she didn't look up when he sat down in front of her, complaining about Albus' newly maudlin ways.

"I suppose one of his intrigues has come to a bad end again," Poppy said, after just enough time that he'd begun itching to start all over again in case she hadn't heard him. "What is it now?"

"Nothing I can speak of just yet," Severus replied, taking up one of the magazines piled to the right on her desk. "I will say that it's the wrong time for sentimental reminiscing, though."

"Don't blame me," was the short reply. "I _tried_ to teach you how to cut him short when it matters."

"By being horribly rude, you mean?" Severus said, rolling his eyes. "I like keeping my job, thank you."

"As if yours has ever really been in doubt," Poppy muttered, her low tone lending extra edge to the old joke. She looked up at him then, pinning him with the cool gaze he was starting to wish he could avoid. "How is Antares?"

"Fine," Severus replied, clamping down on the urge to add to that statement. In light of his discovery earlier on, it seemed useless; Bella obviously wasn't interested in sharing important milestones in Antares' progress with him any more. "Why do you keep asking me that?"

"Bella doesn't always have the time to go into detail when she visits with me," Poppy said, sitting back. "And by the time he's here next week, he won't have time to sit through more than a few rudimentary tests, so all I'll be able to do is observe."

"Then you can call them both in for a chat next weekend, and test him till his skin falls off," Severus retorted, not liking the determined look on Poppy's face. "I'm not his keeper."

"Not last year, you weren't," was her cool answer. "I don't care what kind of front you put up in public here, but you _will_ look out for him this year. You'll be a good house head to him, or you'll know the reason why."

Severus sighed, trying to ignore the urge to share how he'd _tried_ to do that this morning, and found himself both ignored and outmanoeuvred. "The reason being—"

"I will begin to question the efficacy of your long-form potions," Poppy said, matter-of-factly. "I will suggest that you are overworked and over-employed, and ask Albus why he keeps sending you off to all those conventions when you _clearly_ need that time to rest and brew." She gave him an uncomfortably knowing look. "I doubt he'll do more than brush me off, of course; you've laid your bed very well on that score. But he will begin to question why you keep going to those events."

"You can't be serious," Severus said, after a moment's pause, simply because he couldn't quite bring himself to ask if she was blackmailing him. It was all in the tone— a tone that he now realised Poppy must have been using all through this conversation. "I don't think—"

"Not clear enough for you? Fine," Poppy said, her tone flattening dangerously. "I'll put it in Albus' head that you're seeing Bella." Severus sighed loudly, covering his panic with amused disbelief. If there was one person who could start the Headmaster on _that_ train of thought, it was her, and she bloody well seemed to know it, to Severus' misfortune. "Wasn't hard to puzzle it out, really— anyone in her position would be unable to speak to you at length, regardless of whether they were living with you or not. Unless, of course, they had a very good reason for thinking well of you."

"For goodness' sake—"

"Love," Poppy said, cutting him off, "is a very good reason. Hand in hand with lust and loneliness, it is one of the greatest motivators of human action."

By now, Severus was gritting his teeth, unsure of how on earth to strike against her all too true beliefs about his and Bella's relationship. "You're barking up entirely the wrong tree here, you know," he said, struggling to keep his tone calm. "The only reason she's ever spoken to me is on behalf of her twice-cursed son."

"Really," Poppy said, dryly. "How _is_ it that she knows where the last Potions Master Conference was held, then?"

"The only reason—"

"Oh, fine," was the amused answer. "I'm completely convinced. You don't like her, and she certainly doesn't like you."

"You've set this up very well, haven't you? Nothing I say is going to change your mind." Severus laughed sourly. "Well? Is it?"

"Unfortunately not," Poppy said, reaching over to pat his hand perfunctorily. "And Albus'll be just the same once I'm through with him, you can be certain of that. Just think of it—"

"No thanks," Severus returned, spitefully. Letting things alone before he further sealed the truth in her mind was likely the best thing to do, but it was still galling in the extreme. Severus didn't know what was more exasperating, the fact that Poppy was so cheerfully bent on thinking that Bella was seeing him, or the slightly less obvious fact that she entirely disapproved of their relationship. "What have I ever done to you?"

It was exactly the wrong question to ask. Severus could have kicked himself to see the little amusement drain from his once-cordial acquaintance's face. Worse, he could easily have supplied the answers, and they both knew it. It was a mercy that Poppy did not deign to reply; her acid commentary on his actions would only have strained things more. Rising, Severus sought to leave no time for further mistakes.

"You might not think it," Poppy said, her newly sharp tone slowing his departure, "but I'm doing you a very big favour." Severus, paused in the doorway of her office, could feel her eyes digging into his back. "How on earth you haven't been more proactive about protecting the one thing she treasures is beyond me."

He blinked. "And I suppose that makes it friendly blackmail," he said, hating himself for asking, for staying for the answer.

"Oh, it could turn unfriendly in a moment," was Poppy's brusque reply. "Just say the word." But her sigh belied the makeshift menace in her tone, and her next words all but vanished it. "Don't think it wouldn't."

In other words, _if you hurt her again…_ "I won't," was Severus' hesitant reply. He hated himself for it; he didn't need Poppy's approval to see Bella, not hers and not anyone else's. But he still found himself repeating his folly. "I won't."

After that conversation, it seemed like nothing else could go as blatantly wrong. Severus' quick, uninterrupted walk to the large butchers' in Hogsmeade bolstered his spirits, as did the polite cheerfulness of the clerk in allowing him to browse to his heart's delight. He was done in a thrice, loaded down with a large enough package that he couldn't help feeling self-conscious as he left the shop. Once out, he strengthened the odour-repressing charm on the package and made sure to wrap it in a cushioning charm before shrinking it down for his pocket.

The next few minutes passed quickly; once at the grocer's, Severus ran into one of the few people that he regularly spoke to in Hogsmeade. Polite, simple conversation with Will was always easy to endure; it was easier still to accept the offer of a quick drink and short chat in the Hog's Head. Eloquent when he wished to be and still as a rock when he didn't, Will Twilden made an excellent living fencing items of dubious origin. He knew everyone who lived in Hogsmeade, and a good portion of those that passed through the town regularly, and was therefore the perfect person to make inquiries with about getting hold of certain items.

And, with Dumbledore engrossed in Black's affairs and the school year about to begin, now was the best time for Severus to put more effort into getting hold of one of the few substances destructive enough to dispose of the most dangerous articles that had been recovered from the raid on Malfoy manor. Will would not be able to find star fire immediately, of course— punishment for producing and trading it without Ministry sanction had been harsh for long enough that even Will's long-term contacts would think twice before committing to anything out loud.

Not that anyone ever sounded like they'd be reluctant to do business with Will. Severus, who had never had the patience for cultivating contacts on the scale Will did, sometimes envied the way Will could walk into the Hog's Head and nod at half the bar and wink at the rest. He peeled away from Severus in no time, ostensibly to find a table for them to sit at, but more likely to have a quick word with a waiting customer or impatient contact.

Which left Severus to get the drinks, a task he did not ordinarily mind. However, still smarting from seeing Dumbledore and Pomfrey earlier on, Severus had no desire to stand and wait while Aberforth Dumbledore prepared other people's orders, raking his piercing eyes over Severus all the while.

"Right, then," Severus said, when it got to be his turn. "Two—"

"Stirrers," Aberforth supplied. "Saw you walk in with young Twilden. What you always have, isn't it?"

"Yes," Severus said shortly, glad to be able to turn and look away from that unnerving gaze for a moment, if on the weak pretext that he might be looking for Will, who had very openly sat down at a dirty little window table nearby moments ago.

Two glasses thunked down on the counter before him in quick succession. Severus looked down; as always, they were unusually clean. "Headmaster driving you to drink already, I see."

The sarcastic tone in which that was said made Severus look up. A mistake; there was, as always, something behind Aberforth's sour expression that stopped Severus' tongue, however momentarily. "No more than usual," he said politely, returning his gaze to the slowly filling glasses.

They rose into the air abruptly, making Severus start. "Business, then." And then the awful man had turned away and was attending another customer. Severus took control of the hovering glasses, determined to maintain calm. He wouldn't be here for long, and Aberforth had never made a habit of leaving his well-worn spot behind the counter. The thought of leaving soon sustained him through the ensuing small talk with Will; it had all but consumed him by the time he was halfway through his drink.

"Just go, will you?" Will finally said, giving him a frank look. "You're starting to make me look bad."

Severus sighed. "But I haven't even got to—"

"Owl me, for Merlin's sake," Will said, now idly spinning his empty glass in the air. "You haven't forgotten how to charm a letter, have you?" When Severus glared at him, he fully suppressed the smile that had been struggling onto his face. "Look, there's obviously something on your mind. Go gnaw on that in your own time, eh? Come back when you're ready to talk business."

Severus, already half-risen from his chair, gave him a sour look. "How do you know business isn't what's bothering me?"

"Well you'd have asked for the Three Broomsticks for that, wouldn't you?" Will gave him a tight smile. "Anyway, ta for the drink."

Severus only answered with a nod, rising quickly, not bothering to finish off his drink. A minute later, he was firmly on his way out, threading his way around the small groups gathered here and there at the rickety tables, pretending not to hear anything of their low conversations. Already thinking gratefully of getting away, Severus barely noticed the person leaving the pub before him until he'd run into them hard enough to jar his tongue out of his head.

"Sorry," he said shakily, carefully taking himself out of the way of the closing door so no one could stumble into him as stupidly as he had just done to the young—

Oh. Oh dear. "Sorry," Severus repeated, his polite tone covering his sharply rising dismay. Sonya was dressed in clean, simply fitted robes, and looked very much the same save for the slight tear in one sleeve and the way she was feeling carefully at the back of her head.

"Professor," she said ruefully, giving him a brief smile. "Well! It's been a long time."

"I suppose it has been," Severus said, trying to restrain the paranoia clawing into him now. He gestured in the vague direction of her sleeve. "Shall I try and—"

"Oh, I'll survive," Sonya said, shaking her head. For a moment, Severus thought this might end with no further embarrassment on their parts, but soon noticed the way she was already straightening, and the nervous look she was giving him. "Now, I know this isn't the best of times to raise this sort of thing, but I haven't seen you in some time. And when I saw you with Will…" She smiled briefly, and the nervousness disappeared. "A drink, maybe?"

"Well—"

"Needn't be here, you know." Sonya made an abortive gesture at the pub behind them. "We could—"

"Look, Sonya, I'm not—"

"Interested?"

Severus could not keep himself from looking around, though he knew it wouldn't do any good. Anyone determined enough to follow him out and spy on him would likely be sensible enough to conceal themselves sensibly. Somehow, he got out the words. "I'm not available."

"I see," Sonya said encouragingly. The look in her eyes said the opposite.

"I'm quite serious, actually." When he saw the brief flash of disappointment on her face, Severus half wondered if he should have lied, and called it unfortunate that he could be so serious. Then he thought of Bella's possible reaction to spying this in his thoughts, and could have hit himself. "Look, I—"

"Oh don't," Sonya said, cutting him off. "Bound to happen eventually. You know what they say, all things come to an end." She smiled a little then, sudden and bright. "Take the Malfoys. Who'd have known? They always seemed so put together to me."

"Aye," Severus said, now torn between the attraction of receiving fresh news and the impulse to end this…unfortunate conversation as soon as possible. "They've been about?"

"Oh, around and about," Sonya said, shaking her head in amusement. "Mostly each other. The little dance Narcissa did to avoid her dear husband's notice in the post office the other day's the closest to them disagreeing with each other that I've seen in years." She glanced up at Severus, then away. "Most likely it'll be in the _Prophet_ tomorrow, it caused that much of a stir."

"First I've heard of it," Severus said, keeping his face straight. "I'll owl you something, shall I?"

Sonya smiled at him, shrugging regretfully. "Suppose you shall. Good day." She was gone, then, and he could breathe, and count himself up for Apparation to steady his whirling thoughts. Taking a quick walk to calm himself before he left seemed like tempting fate; at this rate, Lucius himself would turn up and invite him to his cavernous home to rant about how the whole world was against him.

A moment later, Severus was in the empty kitchen at home, nursing sarcastic guilt. Nothing really significant had happened during his short-lived trips to Hogwarts and Hogsmeade, but he he felt tired, and achy besides. Bella, he soon discovered, was not at home, and neither was Antares. A dull panic seized him until he spotted the note stuck to the mantelpiece.

_Took Antares down Diagon to finish his school shopping,_ it read, in Bella's impatient hand. _Back after lunch_.

Additional relief coursed through Severus on reading the last three words, heightening his sense of guilt. But the time until then— two or three hours, by the clock above the mantelpiece— was a godsend. He could relax, come down off the strange, roiling high that had carried him through this morning. He could collect his thoughts, could go over the meeting with Dumbledore in his head, could analyse it properly.

And, he thought, feeling even more guilty, he could owl Sonya, and try to explain as clearly as possible that he was taken without insulting her intelligence, _and_ compensate her for the interesting titbit without insulting her dignity. Sighing, Severus, let himself fall onto the sofa, note in hand.

As far as he was concerned, everything else could wait.

* * *

_A/N: You know, for a long time, I thought I wouldn't finish this chapter at all. Shows what I know, eh? Anyway, please do not panic about Sirius, or about Peter, for that matter. All will be revealed._

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

_A/N: Bella breaks down._ _Warning: Foul language, disturbing concepts, and references to sex._

* * *

**Chapter 3: Old House**

Death was everywhere, this summer. It surrounded Bella, choking her. Here, at Gladrags, she knew it was light outside, light inside, full of people, full of life. It was why she'd decided to come to work today, though she ached inside. Life was here, even if death was stalking her life.

Lunch forced her to go out, to leave the shop. Outside in the cold, Bella remembered leaving the house in a daze, head still full of news of Sirius. That news, so easily displaced by demanding tasks and impertinent customers, now started to creep back again. Bella shook her head slightly and began to walk, heading for the Three Broomsticks with a will. Going home for lunch would mean going home to Severus and more bad news. The Three Broomsticks, though expensive, would be quite free of that sort of thing.

Soon enough, she was inside the place. Half-empty it was— strange, for lunchtime— and it meant Bella could sit where she liked. Or, even better, where she liked best. Her favourite corner table was free, and she lost no time in making for it. The sun's rays fought their way in through the heavy glass of the window on her right, lighting the surface of the table prettily. Bella sat and basked in their spotty warmth, and wished Antares could have been there. He'd always liked the sun.

"We've only shepherd's pie right now," Madam Rosmerta said, startling Bella a little as she came up behind her. "Hasn't been much clamour for food today, so I thought I'd save the elves the trouble of making more than one dish. Will some pie do you?"

"Of course," Bella said, after a moment of hesitation. "Shepherd's pie will be perfect. Some lemonade to go with it, please?"

"We've just the thing. Should be about six and seven, total."

"I'll have it out in a moment," Bella said politely, to Rosmerta's back. She dug in her pockets for some money, and counted out the proper amount. Odd, now, to be able to spend so much on one meal, but Severus' behaviour when she talked about money had largely cleansed her of the urge to say anything about it by now. Antares, Morgana be praised, would never be silent about anything of the sort. He'd _seemed_ sorry when the protection charm on him proved hostile to all but one of the many mind-healing potions Madam Pomfrey had pressed on them free of charge after the disastrous visit to the Claromens. But he'd quickly traded his uneasy look for absorption in one of Pomfrey's odd-looking charts, and had listened impatiently to the rest of the conversation after that.

"It's not _that_ bad," he'd said when they'd got home, in response to Severus' grumbling. "Besides, I owe Pomfrey enough already. Not like I'll die without those awful potions, is it?"

Severus had gone right on grumbling, but Bella hadn't been able to bring herself to blame him. Having a potion forcibly deposited in your mouth or stomach because of some overzealous protection charm wasn't the most pleasant way to spend an afternoon, even if it had produced rather interesting expressions on his face. None of it had seemed quite so amusing when Bella had found that Antares now couldn't keep down so much as a thimbleful of Dreamless Sleep, but that had come later on.

The arrival of the food was a welcome distraction. "Miss Black," Rosmerta said, wafting the plate, cup and bottle down onto the table in fine style. "Call if you need anything," she added, sweeping the coins out of sight.

"It is lunchtime, isn't it?" Bella found herself asking. It was summer, and she faintly remembered that the Three Broomsticks usually had one or two young servers helping with the rush so Rosmerta could deal with the flood of customers. Today, there seemed to be no flood, and no servers, and even as Bella looked around the pub, another party was rising in preparation to leave.

Rosmerta sighed. "You wouldn't know it, would you," she said, with an unhappy look in the direction of the slowly departing group. "Well. Enjoy your meal." For a moment, it looked like she would add more. Then Rosmerta had turned away again, and was heading back towards the bar, hailing another customer as they came in. She stopped to chat with the customer, listening intently as he brandished a newspaper and shook his head.

Then they both glanced at Bella, and her growing bewilderment evaporated. There was a picture she couldn't quite make out on the front page of the man's newspaper; it was what he'd been jabbing at. Most likely, it was Sirius' picture, as the Prophet had yet to stop running articles about him despite the fact that he would be dead by the end of next week. And even after that, Bella knew the stares would continue, that the little silences would still crop up in Gladrags when she entered a room or poked her head around the door to ask for something.

Bella swallowed, and realised belatedly that she'd begun to eat. The thought of her lack of awareness of such a necessary task made a bitter laugh lodge in her throat. _"Eat, Maggie,"_ she remembered begging, just days ago. Hours ago. Bella set down her fork and knife and took up the cup and bottle instead. Lemonade washed down what she couldn't seem to swallow, but did nothing for the bitter taste in her mouth. _"I won't if you don't,"_ she remembered saying. _"Eat something. Anything."_

Bella froze, to keep herself calm. Half-empty was just another way of saying half-full; she'd scorned to cry in front of the passengers on the train she'd wearily taken to start the journey back to Severus' house, and she'd be damned if she'd break here.

A minute later, her eyes stopped burning, and her hands became truly steady. Bella began to eat again, quickly and efficiently, trying to keep the thoughts at bay. If she was fast enough, she could have a moment or two to herself, to rage in. Weep in.

Someone paused just beside Bella, their shadow threatening to slow progress towards that goal. Bella prepared her sharpest look and flung it up and at them, not expecting the owner of the shadow to be her sister. Bella stared up at Narcissa, sharpness replaced by shock. That she would come here, and stand so—

"May I sit down," Narcissa said, taking the seat opposite her. Though her tone allowed for no argument, her stiff posture betrayed her nerves. "I trust that you are well?"

"The fact that you feel you can sit down and pretend that we still speak to each other is obviously a sign to the contrary," Bella said, unable to keep the ugly feeling surging up in her chest from leaking into her tone. "Get up and get out of my sight."

"If you'll just listen—"

"I won't."

Narcissa didn't seem to have heard her. "Lucius and I—"

"Are at the devil?" Bella snarled, rising abruptly. "Good."

"My son," Narcissa said, half rising, "is upstairs."

Despite herself, Bella could not keep from asking, "And?"

"Lucius is likely at home," Narcissa said, very quietly, "reading, and, if I'm lucky, signing the divorce papers I had signed and delivered to him." She sat now, slowly, her face blank of everything, her hands too still. "Hear me out?"

Bella sat down, hard. She did not look at her sister as she retrieved her half-empty cup of lemonade. "You have until I finish this."

"I see no future for myself with Lucius," Narcissa said rapidly, under her breath. "I see even less for Draco if things continue as they have been going on. I need allies, and a place to stay." The look in her eyes made Bella drink a little more slowly. "Andromeda offered some of that, and took it back early last night." Her chin raised again. "I have a plan, but I don't think it will work without you."

Bella rolled her eyes, but set down the nearly empty cup. Narcissa looked at her expectantly, but she said nothing.

Bella could hear the strain in her sister's voice as she continued. "Dead men need no money," she said, softly. "Sirius…" She bit her lip. "They'll take everything from him. I know it."

"Narcissa—"

"If Lucius had any influence left, he'd be drawing up the plans for it already," Narcissa said bitterly. "Ministry requisitions are rarely contested."

Glaring at her, Bella took up the cup again. "I think I've heard enough—"

"So you'd really rather that the estate went to Fudge," Narcissa bit out, "instead of to someone who deserves it. Instead of those who have a right to it."

"Oh, spare me—"

Narcissa smiled bitterly. "Who spares our sons?" she asked. "Draco's fees for Hogwarts are paid for the coming year. But after that…"

"If it's help with school fees you want, I'm the last person to talk to," Bella said quietly. "I'm sure that Dumbledore—"

"Don't you _dare_." Narcissa did not quite spit, but her tone was close enough. "Don't you dare turn round and tell me Dumbledore will do a thing. What did he do for you?"

Bella, for a long moment, could not find any words. "How can you—"

"You slaved," Narcissa said matter-of-factly, "for years. On your own. I don't have years, Bella." Her voice shook a little on the last word. "I don't have them. I have tried to see Sirius, but they just—"

Bella rounded on her. "What makes you think they'll let me see him? Eh?" She did not like the look on her sister's face; it was familiar enough that she could feel her own settling into the expression out of habit. "Talk to _Dumbledore_."

"I am talking to you." Narcissa was no longer looking at her; her blue eyes seemed closed now. "If you cannot meet me here tonight, letters from your hand will reach me." Narcissa rose quickly, inclined her head, and was halfway across the room in a moment.

Bella acutely recognised the tactic; even more acute was the memory that not letting your target say no was hardest to accomplish when you most needed to do it. When you desperately needed them to say yes, and needed to seize every moment of their thoughts that you could, before, during and after you saw them. And yet she found herself thinking furiously on the whole thing, trying to think of why and how Narcissa had done all this, wondering whether it was all a trap, wondering what Narcissa had done to Andromeda to have herself turned out almost as soon as she'd been welcomed warily into the fold.

Bella, not having had the luxury of either being welcomed or turned out by Andromeda, could only conclude that the argument had been over what it had always revolved around: Andromeda's marriage.

The clock above the bar chimed loudly, enough that Bella gave it a glance. In a moment, she was heading for the door. Narcissa had already ruined lunch; she need not make Bella late in returning to Gladrags on top of it all.

The shop's brightness offered no solace. Neither did the fact that Bella arrived quite on time, or sped through the rest of her tasks for the day with uncanny efficiency. Her head was weighted with thoughts, with the look in her sister's eyes, with the memory of her cousin's words, with the last, tenuous breath of her first true helper.

Someone said it was six o'clock, and everything on Bella's mind coalesced into a single, driving need. Whatever the motivations behind Narcissa's actions were, it was imperative that Bella know what her future actions might be. The meeting could be a trap, of course; it could also be a genuine request for help. There were the usual precautions to be taken, and Bella turned them over in her mind as she prepared to leave Gladrags, only half-aware of the few goodbyes called out to her as she left.

Floo call home; that would be easily done at the Three Broomsticks. And a basic anti-Befuddlement charm would be easy to pull off during the walk to the inn. A Portkey was quite impossible to completely negate, but it would be easier to avoid touching one in public if she chose her own table, and cast surreptitious diagnostic charms on anything Narcissa tried to press on her.

_All in all, I've nothing to lose_, Bella thought, looking boldly in the direction of the inn. She tightened her grip on her wand, shivering as the wind picked up, and performed the anti-Befuddlement charm under her breath. The door to the Three Broomsticks opened just as she drew near to it, emitting a wizard that eyed her suspiciously as she edged around him and entered inside.

The pub was much busier now, enough that getting through to the large hearth took some manoeuvring. Not that Bella needed to do much— crowds now tended to part for her at a glance or a word. Who they saw asking to be let through was likely just as disconnected from who Bella was as it had been when she'd worn a glamour, but it had its uses. She pinched some powder out of the large pot on the mantelpiece, and knelt quickly as she threw it into the flames. Two words later, she blinking at the living room, and calling loudly for Severus.

He emerged from the kitchen, looking both annoyed and concerned. Bella smiled uneasily at him, deciding instantly that news of who exactly she was meeting could wait until she got home. Severus would only delay her, asking foolish questions and perhaps even suggesting that she shouldn't meet with Narcissa. And she doubted that Narcissa would speak to her again if she didn't meet with her tonight; it was what Bella would have done in her sister's position, and really the most sensible action to take.

"I'm meeting someone at the Three Broomsticks tonight," Bella said carefully. "If I'm not home in an hour or two—"

"Any chance of finding out who this person is?" Severus said, cocking his head to one side. When Bella said nothing, he smiled tightly. "As long as you're not disappearing for days on end—"

"I told you before I left," Bella said, striving to keep the impatience out of her tone. "And besides, I'll tell you when I get home."

Severus gave her a hard look. "Where you went, or who you're meeting with?"

"Both," Bella snapped. "It hardly matters if you know then."

"Ah," Severus said. "I see."

Bella nearly rolled her eyes. "Tell Antares where I am, will you?"

"Of course not," Severus said dryly. "Privileged information, that." The look he gave her then warmed her despite the bitterness beneath. "Of course I'll tell him."

"Thank you," Bella said. She withdrew her head from the flames with some difficulty, and tried not to think of the tense conversation that would follow the even more tense conversation she would be having in a moment.

* * *

"An Unbreakable Vow," Severus repeated, the look Bella did not like still firmly present in his eyes. "Bella—" 

"You're the only person I trust to be our bonder," she said firmly, just as she had said a moment ago. "I know you can disguise yourself, and besides, Narcissa is hardly in the state of mind to bother to—"

"Tell me what she said about her estrangement from Lucius," Severus said wearily, leaning back in his chair. The dark of the kitchen made him look more tired than he likely was, enough that it made Bella feel guilty for keeping him up so late. But Antares had just kept on talking and talking and _talking_ till he fell asleep in her arms, and— "Bella?"

She shook her head. "She said she saw no future for herself with him, and that—"

"A line," Severus said, in a surprisingly hard tone. "No future, indeed."

Bella persisted. "She mentioned Draco," she said, remembering the edgy way her sister had looked around and striven carefully to keep things short, the way she'd ordered more than she could eat and kept it under one of those cunning little heating dome spells she'd always been good at. "She said—"

"She fed you lies," Severus said, his tone now controlled and calm. "I take it that you didn't actually promise anything—"

"Severus, she has no money!" That had been the one thing that had convinced Bella; that Narcissa found herself obliged to take rooms at places she likely considered beneath her fit with everything else.

"Did you give her any?"

Bella stared at him, and could not be more than slightly mollified when he looked down. He gave her a furtive, apologetic look and stayed blessedly silent, in a way that made Bella decide she did not need to dignify his silly question with an answer. "The least I can do is help her with Sirius," she said instead, crossing her ankles. Her feet hurt, as usual, and she desperately wanted to go to bed. "Especially if it'll help me and Antares. Which it will be sure to do if you help bond us."

Severus did not say no, but he looked it. Bella sighed, readying more persuasive words, but Severus spoke again. "You can't trust her," he said carefully. "You simply cannot afford the risk."

"Which is why I insisted on the vow," Bella pointed out. "I have some terms in mind; meaningful ones. At the very least I mean to be sure that she can't do anything to Antares—"

"And how on earth do you think you'll smuggle her in along with you to see your cousin?" Severus burst out, as if he hadn't heard a word she'd said. "How are you sure _you'll_ be allowed to see him at all?"

Bella took a steadying breath. "That is my affair."

"And Pettigrew? How do you propose to kill him when he is two immensely protected cells down and across from your cousin? And on the lowest floor of the Ministry, and guarded by Aurors—"

"It is," Bella said, through gritted teeth, "the only leverage we can offer Sirius. It's the only thing that makes _sense_ to think of promising!"

Severus rose, startling her. For a moment, he seemed unable to speak. Then he walked around the table, around to just behind the chair Bella was now drooping in. The grip on her shoulder that forced her to look at him hurt. "If she hurts you, I'll kill her."

Bella swallowed, but kept her lover's gaze. "You'll bond us, then?"

Severus snorted in disgust, letting go of her shoulder, but lingered behind her. "Come," he finally said, his voice empty of restraint, "come to bed."

Closing her eyes, Bella rose. Severus' arms around her felt almost as good as the relief coursing through her, relief that he was not saying no, that the first and most impossible-seeming hurdle to her and Narcissa's impossible scheme might be cautiously considered to have been put behind her.

* * *

Antares' reaction to the plan stunned Bella in its ferocity. She'd got so used to his calm behaviour and dry acceptance of how things had become, to how softly his magic now seemed to feel when he cast it. The taste of magic in the kitchen now was bitter, making her feel ill. 

It was not as bitter as the look in her son's eyes. "I don't_care_ if he was being beaten bloody every morning at school," Antares was saying thickly. "I don't _care_."

Bella shut her eyes, and tried not to remember what this feel of magic, thick on her skin and in her mouth, had once meant. "I know," she ventured. "But if the plan works for us—"

"I can stand Snape," Antares said quickly, his words seeming to roll themselves around in the air between them. "Not her. Not_him_—"

"We're hardly going to live with them—"

"You'll be joined to them by a bond that can't break," Antares half-shouted. "It would kill you if they needed help, and you let them die—"

"The vow I'm swearing doesn't necessarily—"

"—and you'd have to let them live with us if there was no one and nowhere else," Antares finished wildly, an unhealthy flush darkening his face. "Mum, she spat on us!"

"She did not—"

"It was close enough, and you know it!" Antares shouted. Something hissed audibly behind them, and he blanched, taking a step forward. "Er—"

Bella did not need to look down to know that there was a snake wound round her leg instead of her right boot; its scales were just as surprisingly soft as they had been the first time this had happened. She kept still, lifting her foot when Antares awkwardly encouraged her to do so, his face still dreadfully pale.

"I didn't mean," he began, but the anger and shame stopped his words, and he just stood there shaking, the soft black snake contentedly winding itself around his arm. "Mum—"

"Put that silly thing down so I can hug you," Bella said, finding her own voice just as shaky as his. She was not surprised that the snake began to revert to its former form even as it dropped to the ground, but was surprised to feel Antares' tears against her neck.

Moments passed. Antares stopped crying, separated himself from Bella, and handed her back her boot, and drew up a chair for her to sit on while she put it on. He watched while she did so, stealing furtive looks at her while he continued to make breakfast, putting to rights what had been going wrong due to her interruption to his morning routine. Their eyes met, and the part of Bella that had ached when she thought of being able to support Antares on her own began to twinge.

He took a deep breath, laying his somewhat redundant wand down near the stove, turning to face her. "I won't—"

"You will never have to see or be near Draco or Narcissa unless it is absolutely necessary," Bella said determinedly, conscious that her tone was a little loud, but unable to help herself from keeping it so. "Antares Perseus Black, I formally declare you free to disobey any vows that I might make to others."

Antares' eyes widened. Then he blinked, and began to look thoughtful in the way that meant something odd was about to happen. "I think…" he blinked again, "I think the protection charm liked that." He gave her a look of confusion. "It— it feels like it's settling, or something." He blinked again, then began to fidget, scratching at one ear. "Feels really odd."

Bella looked at her son, now scratching hard at his ear with a puzzled look on his face, and was very hard put to keep back hysterical laughter. "Ah," she finally said, as calmly as she could manage. "Maybe that's good news? Thank god you go to school next— Poppy can give you a really thorough looking over."

Antares nodded, shooting a quick look in her direction that made her ache again. Then, still scratching at his ear, he turned back to the oatmeal bubbling noisily in the pot. "Is it supposed to bubble this loudly?" he asked, his tone almost level.

"I don't know," Bella said, to the question she saw in the shake of his scratching hand. "But I think it should do just fine."

Antares leaned into the hug she gave him on the way out, and said nothing that did not concern breakfast until she left. And as the squeeze of Apparation took her, Bella found herself thinking grimly of just what she would _do_ to Narcissa if their plans fell through.

* * *

Bella sighed. Severus would be here in three hours for the binding, and already Bella was so tired that she began to think of putting off the forging of the Unbreakable Vows until she'd regained her sanity. Today had been one tragedy after another at Gladrags— fabrics lost, patterns wrongly sorted, and ungrateful customers whining copiously and trying to engage Bella in gossip about Sirius. The lunch hour had gone by in all the commotion, leaving Bella nothing to do but run out and purchase a hasty sandwich from the Hog's Head. The wind tore contemptuously at her clothing now as she ducked in through the back entrance of Gladrags, sandwich in hand, as if it had taken it upon itself to add to the annoyance of the day. Bella was still shivering when she decamped to the back cloakroom to eat. 

"_Tempus,_" she said, around a mouthful of ham-and-egg. "Oh, _fuck_ this, I know I was only out a moment!" But the irritatingly solid letters of the spell remained where they were, mocking her with the realisation that she only had fifteen more minutes to eat and rest before she'd need to return to the main shop floor. Bella, scowling at the now-fading letters, had nothing to do but to choke down as much of the sandwich as she could stand before hurrying back out; today was one of those days when she would look wrongly absent, and in the most embarrassing and obvious way possible.

Bella was just beginning to eye the last half of the sandwich in distaste when the second door to the cloakroom burst open. Nora Hammond appeared, wringing her hands.

Bella did not let herself sigh, feeling it would be tantamount to admitting defeat. "What is it?"

"The mannequins are fighting upstairs," Nora said, her tone stuck somewhere between disbelief and dismay. "I— I tried to get them to stop, but—"

"They've been needing a thorough purge for weeks," Bella said, already squeezing past the younger woman. "It doesn't surprise me in the least. Where are they?"

"I think—"

"How many are fighting?" Bella said, rounding on Nora. "If it's more than five, we might as well just strip them and let them maul each other till there's time to tackle them—"

"It's just two, Miss Black, but they're in storage room four, and I thought—"

"Room _four_?" Bella groaned. "Better and better." They were at the stairs now, and Nora was visibly hanging back, obviously eager to be off to sort out whatever other mess was generating itself on the fitting floor. "Two won't take long to respell, thank Merlin. Tell everyone where I am?"

Nora nodded. In a trice, she was heading back the way they came, leaving Bella scowling at everything around her. Gritting her teeth, she started up the stairs, sandwich in one hand, wand already in the other. Storage room four was the largest one, packed with things that ranged from the half-finished robes hanging upon the mannequins to the completed items folded in piles everywhere. If Bella was lucky, the only things the mannequins would spoil was what was spelled in place on their senseless frames.

And if she wasn't—

She heard the thumps and muffled squeaks before she saw anything. And what Bella first saw made her want to scream; there were other mannequins surging into room four, pushing and shoving at their fellows and hopping up and down to see the fight that must be going on within.

For a long moment, Bella just stood and stared. Something ripped loudly— something that could be that decorative shawl she'd been working on for _weeks_— and Bella raised her wand and cut through the mannequins using a hasty displacement spell, foul curses on the tip of her tongue. The ripping sound, she immediately saw, had probably come from a swathe of nondescript green cloth. Even as she sighed, she noticed what pile it was in— the expensive pile— and one of the curses she'd held back fought free.

"Haurio vitae," Bella spat, not caring to limit the deadening charm in any way. But almost every other mannequin drew back from those fighting within their midst, so neatly and so quickly that only one or two of the onlookers went down with the battered-looking fighters. A few fled from the room— more nuisance in the making— but most of them remained within, wringing their hands and keeping out of Bella's way as she plunged into the room.

Bella rolled her eyes. God but they all needed respelling; if they went any longer without a good purge, they'd soon be trying to speak. Bella couldn't imagine a more annoying development; being in this business, she'd heard of the old, rheumy mannequins that the most honoured Parisian dressmakers kept on, but she rather doubted the mannequins at Gladrags would use their new abilities to do more than spout nonsense and quarrel with each other.

Moments later, she'd gathered the four— no, five fallen mannequins into the centre of the room, well away from any piles of cloth. They were all stiff, if still easy to manoeuvre from the semi-permanent lightening charms that had remained on them. Once Bella had them set in a heap, she stepped back, took a deep breath, and wove her thoughts carefully together; intent was everything with the next charm. "Afflare vitae!"

Nothing happened for a moment. Nothing Bella could see, at any rate. And then there was a slight squeak, and another, and another… She sighed. Now for flexibility; that always seemed to wear off when they were purged. "Fundo mollis." More squeaking followed for a minute. Then the five mannequins all wriggled free of each other, coming gracefully to their feet. Bella eyed them critically before separating the two that had been fighting from the others; they were chipped and scarred enough that they wouldn't be wanted downstairs. A hasty smoothing charm would take care of that. Oiling, however, would just have to wait. Especially if— "Tempus. Oh, good grief."

Bella glared at the two mannequins that had been fighting; they were just standing there, pliant and obedient as only newly re-spelled mannequins could be. Fifteen minutes lost, restoring them. Where had it gone?

The mannequins stayed silent, of course, as did all the rest around her, though the ones that had not been re-spelled twitched and watched her as avidly as anything. Bella could already see two of them shoving discreetly at each other, they were that restless. And stupid.

She smiled unpleasantly. Fifteen minutes had already gone into this; one more wouldn't matter. "Haurio vitae," she snapped, at one of the most violently fidgeting mannequins. The ones around it squeaked and scattered as it clattered to the floor, and the space around Bella grew larger. "You will all return to your rightful rooms," she said confidently. Hearing always came first in the rush of knowledge that seeped into magical objects. And if they did not hear or understand— well. Another minute meting out deadening charms would be fine. "If anyone should find you fighting, they'll call me, and I will drain you and leave you dead for a week. Understood?"

The space around Bella increased, and it made her smile. Guilt rode in hard behind the seething pleasure she felt as the mannequins on her way out of the room gave way. They were only mannequins, true, but it wasn't much of a leap from depriving them of the little life they had to performing the _Haurio_ on someone truly living. Or, at least, it didn't seem much of a leap for Bella. The taste in her mouth afterwards was always the same.

Just now, it should have made her feel sick. Maggie had died under a careful, drawn-out _Haurio_ days ago, and the pleasure had been there, skulking beneath Bella's grief at being the one to— to end things. But perhaps this was how Bella was, how Bella needed to be just now, in the hours before she met Narcissa and entrusted her with more than any sane witch would. Perhaps this was the taste she needed beneath her tongue tonight. It seemed to show, if only to the mannequins.

Perhaps it would show to Narcissa as well, as warning. For there was nothing Bella could think of just now that would be sweeter than watching her sister die, if she proved traitorous once again.

* * *

None of the hints Severus had dropped about the disguise he would be using tonight had prepared Bella for this. It felt horribly wrong to walk into the Three Broomsticks so openly with him beside her. The fact that the man beside her was blond, bland of face and ever so slightly shorter than she was did not reassure her at all; the way he moved seemed at odds with how he looked, and something about the way he held himself screamed of all things Snape. 

The tight, suspicious look on Narcissa's face rhymed well with how Bella felt about Severus' disguise. "You're late, Bella. And who's this?"

"I work," Bella snapped, in no mood to be condescended to. "If I need to remind you why we need someone else with us tonight—"

Narcissa rose abruptly from her seat, her expression now forcibly calm. "Outside, then?" Her tone, also calm, might have fooled Bella on any other occasion. Tonight, however, Bella could watch Narcissa lead the way out of the pub and marvel at how thoroughly she could dissemble for hours on end. She knew that any front Narcissa could put up would eventually break down in private, but it was still fascinating to watch her smile slightly when Severus opened the door for her, and wait in the street as if she did it every day.

There was a need for dissembling tonight, of course. The main street of Hogsmeade was busy with people making last-minute purchases before going home, just as Bella might be doing on a different night. And some of those people were slowing down quite on purpose, eyeing the three of them as they began to make their way up the road that led to the Shrieking Shack. There was no other obvious, private place to go in Hogsmeade if one needed to perform dangerous bonding spells without half the town looking on, and since Bella had been unable to bring herself to push for a meeting place far from Hogsmeade, she'd grudgingly agreed with Narcissa's choice.

That wasn't quite what she'd told Severus. He, walking ahead of Bella and Narcissa, was firmly under the impression that Bella had suggested the Shrieking Shack herself, and that Narcissa had fought it tooth and nail, wanting instead to meet in her room at the Three Broomsticks. His approval of her choice had made Bella feel both guilty and annoyed, with that mix of emotions leaning more toward guilt when he'd blithely offered to secure the Shack before the meeting without any prompting.

As they approached the Shrieking Shack, the amount of people around them dwindled, until they were walking in uncomfortable silence that suddenly became thicker once they reached the gate. Narcissa's calm expression wavered but held firm, but Bella could see her hands were starting to shake. She disguised it well, giving both Bella and Severus a faint smile as she stopped just in front of the gate. "Here?"

Severus coughed. "You give my masking charms a great compliment," he said, an insincere smile on his face. "The back of the house would be better."

Bella managed not to glare at him; what on earth had happened to his muttering about only having an hour to perform both Vows? "Here is fine," she said. "A little bit of fog will support that charm very nicely."

"But surely it will be safer to—"

"The masking charm, darling," Bella said, giving him a tight smile. When he didn't make a move, she drew out her wand and strengthened the fog that had already been creeping up around them, and told herself that she would let herself slap him when they were done, and away from Narcissa's now openly fearful gaze. A look around them gave Bella adequate reason for the fear in her sister's eyes; Severus had to have done the masking charm nonverbally, for the fog was quickly becoming all that could be seen around them.

"Shall we?" Severus asked, his current tone as whoever the bland blond man whose face he wore sarcastic enough that Bella dearly wanted to slap him right then. She smiled instead, as calmly as she could, and put her wand in her other hand. Narcissa's hand was cold and damp, and smoother than Bella's own. It felt enough like her own that she found herself gripping her wand harder than was necessary, to try and remind herself that this fleeting familiarity changed nothing.

A look into Narcissa's cold eyes was enough; for a moment, Bella could understand Severus' fundamental distrust of this whole situation. _I hold a snake by the hand,_ Bella thought, as they both rehearsed their vows, as Severus stepped close, the mocking look on his face replaced by a solid, unreal calm, _and that snake is my sister._

"Bella," Severus said, his voice oddly loud in the calm of the fog that surrounded them. "You first."

"Will you, Narcissa, assist me, Bellatrix, in my pursuit to ensure proper redistribution of the Black family fortune?"

Narcissa's smile was gone now, and her tone a little too calm to be believed. "I will," she said, and her hand twitched in Bella's as the first tongue of flame bound them together.

"And will you, to the best of your ability, do what is needed to ensure that redistribution, freely giving your resources to the cause?"

"I will." The fog was thick about them now, silent, reeking of magic. It would get worse when Narcissa repeated her side of the vows, of course— the elements were always sensitive to such dangerously binding magic.

"Will you equally divide the results of our attempt at this cause, whether they be good, bad or indifferent, as determined by a neutral third party?"

"I will." There was a little too much relief in that for Bella's comfort, but it was quickly drowned out by the burning sensation reaching up her arm. It was an effort to keep still, but she did it anyway, not letting the slightest sound escape as she felt the Vow settle deeply into her. It dug and clawed at her, reaching behind the shields on her mind to probe at her intentions. Narcissa, similarly still, made a small concession to the more violent reaching of the Vow into her mind, closing her eyes.

Severus lifted his wand for a moment, letting both Bella and Narcissa stretch their reddened hands, and then it was time for the second Vow.

Victory gathered in the back of Bella's throat as she spoke. She knew that this next Vow would be supremely binding, for it was as close to the normal form of protector's Unbreakable Vows as she'd been able to wangle. And there was something deeply satisfying in forcing the woman who, as Antares had said, would have spat on them if she could to say these words, to _mean_ them. "Will you, Narcissa, actively protect and defend the welfare of my son, my allies and my loved ones should you be in a position to do so?"

Narcissa tone was stiff. "I will."

"Will you swear not to harm my son, or any of my allies and loved ones should you be in a position to do so?"

"I will."

And now, the most pertinent condition. "Will you swear to submit to dissolution of this vow and other vows we swear to each other in good faith, should our circumstances change?"

"I will." The heat of the Vow bound them together much faster this time, so that Narcissa was soon clearing her throat and preparing to speak the conditions of Bella's only vow.

"Will you, Bellatrix, aid me, Narcissa, in the observance of the vows I have vowed to you?"

"I will."

"Will you treat me with the courtesy and trust that I require to observe them?"

"I will."

"And will you aid me in their dissolution when we agree that there is no longer a need for them?"

"I will."

Bella closed her eyes as this last vow took hold, its fire flowing into every part of her until she had to bite her tongue to keep back a cry of pain. This feeling was what every story of an Unbreakable Vow talked of, an awful heat that burned deep into you to warn you of the death that would come if you broke faith. As the unseen flames retreated, Bella could understand why so few had been broken, including those that had been sworn in bad faith and legally dissolved at the imperative of a high magical authority. It was hard to look this feeling in the face, to choose the awful fire of a thwarted vow over life and compliance.

Narcissa had drawn away now, her artificial calm beginning to come apart. Her hands were shaking again, presenting an odd contrast with the cool sense of achievement in her eyes. Bella found herself wondering, yet again, what Lucius had done to her sister, to push her so thoroughly into the hands of his enemies.

Bella nodded at Narcissa, pushing that thought aside. There would be no answer to that, just as there would be no long, contentious trial for Sirius, if she could help it. She and Narcissa would get in, get the fortune that belonged to them out, and split up as quickly as possible, and that would be that. "Tomorrow, then?"

Narcissa nodded firmly. "See you at lunch." Then, with a stiff nod in Severus' direction, she began to make her way through the fog, heading for the main street of Hogsmeade with a will.

Severus, naturally, took offence. "Presumptuous bitch," he muttered, glaring after her. "Announcing the time, as if you have all the time in the world to meet with her—"

"We agreed on the time when we hammered out the vows," Bella said, tiredly, trying not to smile. The scowl on Severus' face was so very _his_ just now, and it looked very strange. "And really, she did us a favour by leaving rudely. I was starting to think you'd start melting apart before we were done."

"I will not be 'melting apart' for at least a quarter of an hour, thank you," Severus said, still glaring after Narcissa. When he turned to eye her, Bella sighed, certain of what was coming next— "You needn't have sworn a thing to her."

"Everything I know about vows dictates that magical and mental balance is key," Bella said, for what was likely the tenth time since she'd told him she would also be making a Vow to Narcissa. "Even deadly vows depend on mutual trust to function properly."

"Well, I still think—"

"You can ask Dumbledore when you tell him," Bella said, giving him a thin smile. She knew it was a bad idea to bring the Headmaster into it again, but she couldn't help herself. "He'll agree, I'm sure."

Severus snorted. "He'll have a bloody heart attack, more likely," he said. "Have you forgotten that she's still married to Lucius?"

"Property law will automatically consider their union dissolved by tomorrow, if she wasn't lying about when she left him," Bella pointed out. "Can you stop bringing that up? You know the law just as well as I do—"

"I also know Lucius," Severus snapped. "If you think he'll let their marriage lapse just because of one stupid law— one that doesn't protect against kidnapping, if you remember—"

"And she's met me in the open," Bella said. "Spoken civilly to me. He probably even knows we were going to meet tonight. What makes you think he wouldn't have shown up in Hogsmeade if he wanted her back?"

Severus sighed. "Well—"

"Absolutely nothing, and you know it." Bella exhaled loudly, shaking her now truly cold hands. "Is that everything? Because I would like to go home now, where it's warm, and we can continue to beat this dead hippogriff of an argument without fear of being overheard."

"Bella—"

"The vows are sworn," Bella said, deliberately. "It's_done_. Can we go home?"

"Home," Severus repeated, scornfully, as if he'd never been seen to perk up when she called his house that. "Fine." He grudgingly took the hand she offered him, then pulled her surprisingly close. "This isn't over."

To that, Bella only offered a smile. "No," she said, amusedly. "Come on."

* * *

_A/N: Er. Idea of dual vows thanks to furiosity on LJ; a story of hers was the first one in which I came across that. Otherwise, Happy New Year! Hope you enjoyed this chapter, long as it's been in the making._

* * *


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